The Problem
by CharliesHoodie
Summary: Holmes and Watson acknowledge their feelings while traveling through the Continent, but a tragedy at Reichenbach Falls puts everything in jeopardy. Watson must help Holmes through his recovery while the threat of Moriarty's henchmen still lingers.
1. Chapter 1

**The Problem**

Chapter 1/8 (not including the epilogue)

Characters: Watson, Holmes, Peter Steiler, Mycroft Holmes, Mrs. Hudson, Inspector Lestrade, Constable Clark.

Pairing: Eventual Holmes/Watson

Rating: PG-13/R for language, graphic injuries and sexual situations throughout the eight chapters and epilogue.

Summary: A re-write of "The Final Problem." Holmes and Watson acknowledge their feelings while traveling through the Continent to escape Professor Moriarty, but a tragedy at Reichenbach Falls puts everything in jeopardy. Watson must help Holmes through his recovery while the threat of Moriarty's henchmen still lingers.

Note: Written after a prompt for a one-shot was given to me by Lia Walker. It kind of went out of control. This story will be updated daily and is not a work in progress. I hope you enjoy it!

* * *

_Chapter One_

The two bruised and bloody knuckles were certainly not the worst of the injuries Watson had to mend throughout the years. Holmes's knack for boxing, the ridiculous chases through the London streets and the physical contact with criminals often taller and larger than Holmes all contributed to terrible, sometimes life-threatening injuries. Broken bones he had to mend, bruises he had to scrutinize and torn skin that he had to stitch back together.

Of course, he had been shaken up by these injuries in the past, often begging Holmes to change his ways and to mind his health. Naturally careless and insufferable, Holmes refused and Watson was forced to let it go, knowing there wasn't much he could do.

And yet, these two torn knuckles affected Watson like no other injury Holmes had obtained.

It wasn't their condition. They could be quickly fixed with a bandage. It was the way Holmes had received the wounds.

"You should've come here instead of Mycroft's," Watson said hoarsely, dipping the rag in the basin of water and using it to clean the blood off.

After his initial wince, Holmes gave a small hint of a smile and watched the swirl of red blood in the sink. "No, Watson. As I've told you, I would've made a dangerous guest."

With a dramatic roll of his eyes, Watson chose to keep his mouth shut as he wrapped Holmes's hand in a clean bandage and considered everything Holmes had told him since crawling through his window and nearly giving the doctor a heart attack. An awry carriage. A brick from a roof. Some lowlife with a bludgeon who Holmes had to fend off – the source of his mangled hand. These attacks had all been failed attempts at taking Holmes's life.

And it all had taken place in one day.

"Why are you here, then?" Watson asked, his voice muffled as he covered his face with his palms and rubbed his eyes. He was already exhausted. Holmes's lifestyle usually had this affect on him, but this was too much. When he lowered his hands, Holmes looked stung.

"That's not what I meant!" Watson quickly explained, backtracking. "Holmes, please, you know that's not what … I just … I'm confused. If Moriarty and his men are after you and you didn't want to lead them to me, why …?"

Holmes stood up from the stool he had been sitting on just as Watson collapsed upon the settee, looking up at Holmes for guidance and an explanation.

"There's a reason I came in through the window and closed the blinds," he replied with a wink and a flitting smile. "And that was to tell you to completely end all contact with me."

"Absolutely not," Watson answered straight away. "Not when you're in danger like this."

"…Until tomorrow morning. You're coming to the Continent with me."

Before Watson even had the chance to comment, Holmes gave him very explicit instructions on how to arrive at Victoria station completely unnoticed. It involved handing off his luggage to someone that very night, taking a very specific hansom the next morning and even running through the station like a fool. Watson didn't question any of it and, not for the first time, he considered his psychological health. He was more than willing to comply.

They discussed their plans further and Holmes provided more information on the case. Moriarty controlled some of the worst criminals in London and Holmes had put himself in a considerable amount of danger by vowing to bring him down. Enough danger to cause him to flee the country. As Watson tried to wrap his mind around what Holmes was telling him, his friend was already readying himself to leave.

"I'll need to escape over your garden wall, Watson," he said as he shrugged on his jacket while gazing through the blinds and out into the darkness of the street.

Watson stood and crossed his arms in a vain attempt to appear as though he had control of his friend. "I have to insist that you stay the night, Holmes."

Holmes turned away from the window and cocked an eyebrow, annoyed. "Well then our plan wouldn't work too well, would it?"

Watson stood his ground. "At least until the sun rises. I don't feel comfortable with you leaving now when anyone could be lurking in the dark."

The annoyance left his expression and he gave the tiniest of smiles at Watson's concern. Regardless, he easily pushed past the doctor and towards the exit that led to the garden.

"I don't want to bring danger here."

"Holmes, Mary is away on visit. It's just me," Watson said, defeated, as he followed after him feeling very much like the loyal dog Blackwood had called him only months ago. Not long before they both learned the name Moriarty. "I can take care of myself. And if you're here, then we'll both be safe. Holmes, you can't deny it's a good idea."

Holmes said nothing as he took a few moments to peer out the door and into the garden.

"If they've so nearly killed _me_ three times today, Watson, imagine what they would do to you."

"Very funny, Holmes."

"It's not a joke," Holmes said seriously, turning to look at Watson with a rather frightened look on his face that had Watson staring back in shock. "If I can barely keep myself alive, how am I going to look after you?"

Watson bit down on his lip. He couldn't sway Holmes. No matter how hard he tried. Holmes never let anyone chain him down and take care of him when he needed it the most. Not even Watson. "Please be careful."

"I always am."

"Of course you are. Silly me to believe otherwise," Watson said with an eye roll and a forced smile.

Holmes's mouth twitched slightly before he scaled the wall and disappeared into the darkness.

* * *

The doors to the carriage slammed and the whistle let out a shrill sound as Watson fell down into his seat, groaning when he realized that the Italian priest he had assisted earlier was his companion.

_Where was Holmes?_

Passing a hand over his face as he closed his eyes and collected himself, he tried to remember some of the little Italian he had managed to learn from Holmes throughout the years. Nothing came to mind, however. But all he wanted to say was the equivalent to 'bugger off.' Normally he wouldn't be so rude. But at the moment, this man had taken Holmes's seat and even if Holmes wasn't here he had no right, and –

"My dear Watson. You have not even condescended to say good morning."

Watson turned to the source of the voice in shock. For only a moment, he could make out his friend's face from behind the disguise of an elderly, wrinkled priest. Waiting a beat or two to make sure that this man was, in fact, Holmes, Watson reached across the space separating them and punched him square in the knee.

"You deserved that!" he hissed angrily.

Holmes gasped and shrunk away slightly, gingerly touching the knee cap. "Watson! I could get you thrown off this train for abusing an elderly man."

"I thought you might be hurt or worse! You knew I would be worried about you, and yet you _continue_ to play these games with me."

"Watson, please do stop complaining," Holmes instructed calmly, rolling up the loose pant leg of his costume to get a better look at the damage Watson had done. Although Watson was busy blatantly ignoring his companion by staring determinedly out the train window, he did shoot a concerned glance down at the knee. It was already a little red with the potential to bruise.

Holmes only shrugged and let the pants fall back loosely over his thin calf. He snuck a look at Watson, recognized the signs of a scorned man, and turned to gaze out the window as well.

"Sorry," Watson said, barely above a whisper, after about half a minute.

"What's that?" Holmes asked with fake, infuriating curiosity. "I was under the impression that you were giving me the silent treatment."

"I'm sorry!" Watson said louder, annunciating each syllable as if he were speaking to a deaf man. "About your knee," he added on in a calmer tone after Holmes wrinkled his nose at him. "I shouldn't have hit you that hard."

Holmes only shrugged a shoulder and Watson rolled his eyes.

"Will you take off that horrid disguise? It's not too flattering."

"There's actually a reason I'm wearing it, and it's not just to enrage and confuse you. After all, while this may come as a total and complete shock, you are not the center of the universe."

"Really? Because I thought that harassing me was one of your favorite pastimes."

"Not today," Holmes announced, a little too seriously for Watson's taste. "Look out the window, old boy. That's him."

Watson frowned slightly and followed Holmes's gaze out onto the platform. Pushing through the crowd was a rather tall man dressed all in black. Try as he might, Watson failed to get a clear view of his face. He was blocked by the swarm of people on the platform, but Watson could see him waving angrily at the train, demanding it to stop. But in an instant, they had departed from the station.

Watson turned back to Holmes, feeling rather shaken by the whole incident. But if it had affected Holmes at all, he didn't show it. Instead, he let out a lighthearted laugh as he removed his disguise. It was odd, but Watson immediately felt more at ease now that he could look upon Holmes and recognize him, knowing that the old priest was actually him under the cassock.

"Even though we were careful, he still almost caught up to us," Holmes said as he stuffed the costume into his bag. "Last night his goons set fire to our rooms."

"Holmes!" he cried, scanning over his body. "Are you hurt anywhere? Do you have any burns?" He caught his bottom lip between his teeth, chewing on it anxiously.

"I'm quite well, Watson," Holmes said delicately, aware that he was frightening his friend. "I didn't stay the night, and I instructed Mrs. Hudson to reside with family until we are safe again. They must have lost my trail, or else they would've known that I had not returned home. However, it does seem that Moriarty has been following _you_. He made it here, after all. Did you slip up?"

Watson stared at him, aghast. "No! Of course not! I did everything you asked, Holmes. Everything."

Holmes nodded and wrung his hands. "Right. I shouldn't have doubted you."

He lifted his head and smiled pleasantly as he disentangled his hands to reach across and pat Watson's knee.

Watson wasn't the least bit surprised when Holmes began to lay out a new, detailed plan. There was a strong possibility that Moriarty would catch up with them at Canterbury, but arresting him there would do no good. His henchmen would still be at large and they were already proven to be incredibly dangerous. Once they arrived at Canterbury, they would catch the next train to Newhaven where they would cross over to the Continent and partake on some sort of expedition on foot. Holmes spoke of it rather fondly, but it already had Watson's bad leg aching.

Holmes was confident with his plan to throw Moriarty off his trail. But Watson, with a stab of fear, realized something. If this man who Holmes considered to be his intellectual equal wanted the detective dead before he could snare him and turn him into the police, he could very possibly be succeed.

And Watson simply couldn't let that happen.

* * *

They had fallen into a rather comfortable silence and, at some point, Holmes had drifted off.

It had gone unnoticed to Watson, who had been staring out the window absently. But when he made a remark about the stuffiness of their carriage and Holmes didn't reply, Watson turned to find the detective with his shoulders slumped and his head fallen to the side at an uncomfortable angle.

Watson pursed his lips, studying his friend. There was no doubt that he was exhausted. After all, he spent yesterday and the night that followed trying to avoid death. Watson couldn't even begin to imagine everything he had been through. Yes, he knew of the three attacks made against Holmes as well as the fire set to their … his … flat, but he was certain there was more to the stories. Things that Holmes hadn't told him and perhaps never would. Watson would have to settle, though. He was safe here and Watson would _keep _him safe.

He could start by preventing the terrible crick in his neck Holmes was sure to receive after sleeping in such a position. Watson already knew how this would end. Holmes would wake up –cringe and complain while gingerly holding his neck – and then somehow place the blame on Watson. Why didn't he wake him? Why not readjust him and provide a cushion? Holmes could go on and on with so many accusations if he wanted to and still, no matter how ridiculous they might be, Watson would still feel guilty.

So it was self-preservation, really. Watson moved over to Holmes's side of the carriage and sat down, carefully adjusting him so his head fell down onto his shoulder. Holmes hardly stirred. When he actually could sleep, the man was a rock. And now, overcome with unbearable exhaustion, Watson didn't think he would be waking anytime soon.

Watson wasn't sure if he had relieved all the discomfort, but he felt certain he had helped. Holmes's body had immediately relaxed against his own. Watson wrapped one arm around his waist before resting his temple on the top of Holmes's head.

It would be foolish, he knew, to doze off. But the repetitive sounds and movements of the train along with Holmes's soft breathing eventually pulled him into a light slumber.

* * *

It was the noise of the other passengers departing that caused them both to wake when they arrived at Canterbury. Holmes took no time in springing up from the seat and preparing his bags, muttering irritably under his breath.

"Idiot!" he hissed, busying himself around the carriage and angrily throwing Watson's bag in his general direction. Watson managed to catch it before it slammed into his face. He peered over at Holmes, hesitating.

"I didn't mean to fall asleep," he began sheepishly, bringing the bag down into his lap. He was still sitting.

"Oh, no, dear fellow," Holmes sighed, turning around to stare down at Watson ruefully. "The only person I should be angry with is myself."

"You were exhausted. We were on a train. Safe. Holmes, it's quite all right."

But Holmes didn't look convinced.

"I should have been alert."

With that, he turned on his heel and left the carriage. Watson sighed before standing up and hurrying after his friend.

Watson eventually made it to the platform where he located Holmes's retreating back and sped up. Coming up behind him, he grabbed his elbow and leaned forward to speak in his ear.

"Come on now, Holmes. You were just beating yourself up about not being on your guard during a quiet train ride while I was right at your side, and now you're going to go running through a busy station alone?" His hand slid down his elbow and stole into Holmes's own, squeezing gently.

Holmes said nothing, but Watson saw the passing smile that flashed across his lips in mild amusement.

"Come on," Watson said with his own smile, taking his place next to Holmes now and keeping their hands linked as he scanned the crowd. "Let's check the times for the Newhaven train."

After discovering there was only an hour to wait before the train departed, they crossed the station and – hands separated now but Watson's shoulder still pressed against Holmes's protectively – fought over whether or not to dine during their free hour or to wait. When they tired of that and ultimately reached no conclusion, they switched to arguing about their luggage which had been sent ahead of them to give Moriarty something to chase after.

Watson was busy expressing his frustration on not being able to pack an extra waistcoat in his bag when Holmes's eyes focused on something behind him. He grabbed Watson's sleeve and urged him to turn and look.

Watson stared across the stretch and down the track where he spotted an engine and a single carriage approach the station. Just as it neared, Holmes dragged Watson behind a pile of luggage. Safely concealed, they watched as Moriarty's train carried on past the station. Watson found himself breathing normally again as he gripped Holmes's forearm.

"As you can observe, the man has limits to his genius," Holmes announced rather proudly.

But Watson felt ill. "He would've killed you if he saw you here."

"Yes," Holmes agreed cheerily, leading Watson back out from their hiding place. "But we've successfully tricked him. Nothing to fear now, old boy."

Watson remained unconvinced. He didn't have to say anything – his expression was the indicator and Holmes noticed immediately. Giving him a warm, comforting smile, Holmes put a hand on his back and guided him over towards the small café within the station.

"I can assure you that everything will be quite fine, Watson," Holmes promised.

Watson's lip twitched slightly in a forced smile.

"Good!" Holmes said, clapping him on the back. "Now. The real concern is what we will have for lunch." He gave Watson a little wink. "I know how picky you are about your food, so this will truly be a challenge."


	2. Chapter 2

**The Problem**

Chapter 2/8 (not including the epilogue)

Characters: Watson, Holmes, Peter Steiler, Mycroft Holmes, Mrs. Hudson, Inspector Lestrade, Constable Clark.

Pairing: Eventual Holmes/Watson

Rating: PG-13/R for language, graphic injuries and sexual situations throughout the eight chapters and epilogue.

Summary: A re-write of "The Final Problem." Holmes and Watson acknowledge their feelings while traveling through the Continent to escape Professor Moriarty, but a tragedy at Reichenbach Falls puts everything in jeopardy. Watson must help Holmes through his recovery while the threat of Moriarty's henchmen still lingers.

Note: Written after a prompt for a one-shot was given to me by Lia Walker. It kind of went out of control. This story will be updated daily and is not a work in progress. I hope you enjoy it!

* * *

_Chapter Two_

After their crossing at Newhaven, they spent two nights in Brussels and then moved on south to the border of France and Germany. Before they left their quiet inn in Brussels, Holmes had telegraphed the London police and instructed them to send any new reports to the hotel they were traveling to in Strasbourg. Once they arrived that Monday, Holmes went straight to his room to await a reply.

During this time, Holmes wouldn't allow Watson to leave their building and Watson was happy to obey. As much as he thought he would enjoy exploring Strasbourg, he knew their safety was far more important. Instead, he spent most of that Monday poking around the hotel. No one looked threatening, as far as he could tell. Most of the occupants were families on holiday.

When Watson returned to Holmes's room that evening, he found his friend right where he left him. Sitting in the arm chair with a pipe in his hand. His hair was a little disheveled and he had stripped off his jacket and waistcoat, but that was to be expected. Now, there was something … different about him. Something very off that Watson couldn't exactly place.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and tilted his head. He was usually so in tune with Holmes, but now he was at a loss. He knew when Holmes was upset. He knew when Holmes had just found a lead on a case (even though Watson usually had to have Holmes spell that lead out for him). Over the years, he was proud to admit that he had become one of the only people who Holmes had allowed into the very private realms of his mind. He was his closest friend.

But now Holmes was guarded. His face was stiff. His eyes were steely. Slowly, they rose up to meet Watson's. He blinked, as if surprised to find him there.

"Come on," Watson demanded uneasily, marching over to the bed and grabbing Holmes's waistcoat. He tossed it to him and shuffled through the wardrobe in search of his jacket. If Holmes didn't want to tell him what was wrong, fine. This wouldn't be the first time.

"Where are we going?" Holmes asked gruffly, sinking further into his chair.

"Down to the dining room," Watson answered, locating the jacket and throwing it onto Holmes's lap. "You've forced me to dine alone twice now, and you wouldn't even touch the leftovers I brought you. You have to eat now, old boy."

"I – "

"Not an option, Holmes."

Holmes pulled on his clothes, glowering pointedly all the while. Watson just smiled smugly and led him down to the dining room where they took their seats and ordered.

"I've been around the hotel all day," Watson said, pouring them both glasses of wine. "As far as I can tell, no one has followed us here and no one's a threat."

Holmes shrugged a shoulder and refused the glass with a wave of his hand. "The fact that you, Watson, were the one investigating … well, that doesn't tell us much."

Watson set the glass down in front of him anyway. "You're a fool if you think your insults still affect me. Besides, _one of us _had to be productive."

"And by productive you mean acting foolish and wandering off when I specifically told you to keep a low profile?"

"Oh, give it a rest, Holmes!" Watson snapped, falling silent as the waiter returned with their food. Holmes glared at him across the table.

"You – " he began once their server left.

"Just, please, shut up," Watson growled, holding a hand up to silence him. "Honestly, I'm not in the mood to fight about this. I'm tired and hungry. My _leg _hurts in this weather. I've had a headache since we got off the train…"

Holmes was staring at him incredulously. "Are you really just going to whine? Please, Watson, refrain. It's tiring, considering that's all you do."

Watson set his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands. "Good Lord. I really, really hate you sometimes."

This seemed to strike a nerve Watson hadn't meant to tamper with.

"Really?" Holmes nearly shouted, suddenly furious. The dining room was already loud, but a few eyes still wandered towards their table. "Well, it's a good thing you won't have to deal with me or any of this much longer!"

Watson sat up straight now, hands away from his face. "What are you talking about?" he demanded.

"I received a reply from the police earlier today," Holmes began. Although his voice was lowered, the intensity was still there. "They captured some of Moriarty's gang but couldn't secure him. You're returning to London tomorrow morning."

"With you," Watson filled in cautiously.

Holmes shook his head and stared down at his untouched food.

"Why not?" Watson asked, beginning to feel his own voice rise.

"Because you'll find me a dangerous companion now," Holmes answered quietly. "He'll seek revenge on me, Watson. I know it. He told me he would. If he returns to London, there's nothing for him but the noose. You'll be safe there."

"Then so will you!" Watson tried to reason pleadingly.

Holmes cracked a humorless smile and shook his head. "No. Not me."

Watson fell silent for a few minutes. This explained Holmes's odd behavior earlier. From the moment Holmes suggested it, Watson knew there was no way he was going to leave him here. Not alone and unprotected. Now he just had to let it be known.

"I'm not leaving," Watson began slowly, feeling his hands clench into fists nervously. He opened his mouth to say more, but nothing else came to mind. That was it. He wasn't leaving.

"Watson ..." Holmes warned.

"No!" Watson shouted. The tables near them briefly fell silent.

Holmes suddenly slammed his hand down on the tabletop, causing the plates and glasses to rattle noisily. His face had grown red with anger and his eyes were wide and dark.

Watson shrunk back against his chair timidly, staring back at Holmes.

"I'm not leaving," he repeated, voice trembling. "You can't make me go."

Holmes fell silent and refused to speak for the rest of their dinner. On top of that, he rejected his food and Watson, not feeling hungry any longer, had to force himself to finish his meal.

"Good night," Watson tried as they came to a stop outside Holmes's door. Holmes growled a reply that didn't exactly sound like parting words as he uncharacteristically fumbled with the key to his room.

"I don't hate you," Watson suddenly blurted, recalling his words at dinner. "I shouldn't have said that, Holmes. I was just upset. You know I don't hate you."

The door swung open and Holmes stepped in.

"Go to hell," he spat, slamming the door behind him.

Watson's hand flew up to conceal his surprised gasp. During times like these, Watson would usually just listen to Holmes. But he couldn't just comply now. He wasn't going to leave Holmes alone in Europe and let him be hunted down and killed.

Watson made his way back to his room, hoping that he would find Holmes in better spirits by the morning.

* * *

But he couldn't sleep.

From the moment he pulled the blankets up to his shoulders and rested his head on the pillows, he couldn't close his eyes. All he thought about was the terrible way the evening had ended and the cruel words he had said to Holmes.

_Of course _he didn't hate him. He was frequently infuriated by him, but he had never come close to hating his friend. In plenty of ways, he loved Holmes. And he knew that Holmes returned his feelings. It was an intense bond that, of course, included a lot of quarrels and frustration. No relationship was perfect, and theirs was far from it.

During their darker times, they could fight, scream, throw things and call each other names. These arguments didn't happen over cases, but over common household issues that were bound to arise. The skillful way Watson could make their rent money disappear or the mess Holmes would leave in their rooms. One night in particular, everything got out of hand very quickly. Holmes had said something – funny how he couldn't remember it now – very cruel and Watson, forgetting his own strength, had shoved him with too much force. Holmes wound up on the floor with a gash in his thigh from the wooden table that splintered beneath his weight.

Watson had stitched him up. The damage wasn't severe, but Holmes still had trouble putting weight on the leg for the next few days. During that time, Watson had held him while he recovered and begged for his forgiveness even though Holmes had already given it to him soon after the incident.

That was the beauty of their friendship. No matter how terribly they hurt each other, everything turned out all right in the end. Surely this incident would be no different. They would wake up in the morning and be fine.

He managed to doze for an hour or two before his eyes snapped open. Sighing, he rolled onto his side and threw the blankets back. Why couldn't he shake the feeling of guilt that had overtaken him? He couldn't fall asleep without things being right with Holmes.

Digging in the nightstand drawer, he pulled out the extra set of keys to Holmes's room. They had acquired them from the manager for safety reasons, as the two of them rooming together – even under aliases – would look suspicious to anyone tracking their travels.

He made his way to Holmes's room and unlocked the door before quietly pushing it open. What would he say to him? What if he was sleeping? That was doubtful, but still a possibility.

Holmes would probably kick him out. Their fight had only been a few hours ago and he probably hadn't calmed down yet. And if he had, seeing Watson would only upset him again. But he couldn't exactly turn back now … he had the door wide open.

The room was bathed in light. And there was Holmes. Awake and sitting on the edge of his bed with his hands clasped tightly around something that Watson couldn't see. Obviously, he was aware of Watson framed in the doorway. But he didn't immediately acknowledge him. He was staring down at his knees.

"I couldn't sleep either," Watson said gently, his voice light. "Would you mind…?"

He saw it, then. An open bag on the floor near the foot of the bed with Holmes's clothes pouring out from the unzipped top. Watson squeezed his eyes shut, trying to make sense of it all. He felt a slight chill as he opened his eyes again to stare at Holmes who was still studying his knees.

"You were going to leave me here."

Holmes barely stirred. The room was silent for a moment or two before Watson turned back towards the door and hurled it shut with surprising force. It crashed into the frame with a loud, wooden thud that startled even Watson. He had probably disturbed most of the hall.

Standing in the middle of the room, he still felt the need to throw something. Slamming the door hadn't helped rid him of the sudden, intense pain brought on by this betrayal. Instead of doing something he was sure to regret, he balled his hands up into fists and held them down at his side.

"You were going to leave," he said again.

Holmes's eyes flickered up at him briefly before falling again. "I won't say I didn't consider it."

"You won't say you didn't consider it," Watson repeated with a snarl, beginning to pace the room. "That much is obvious. You packed!"

With a surge of guilt, Watson noticed that Holmes was trembling slightly. God, this was all going wrong. He wanted to rush over, wrap an arm around him and apologize.

But he had planned to _leave._

"You were going to leave," he said for the third time, stopping in front of Holmes. "Leave me here on the Continent right after I refused to abandon you!"

Holmes shrunk back as though he had been hit and Watson took several steps away from the bedside, giving him space he didn't deserve.

"If it in anyway comforts you," Holmes began quietly. "I couldn't go through with it."

"You couldn't go through with it! How should I know that you weren't about to leave just before I entered the room?"

Watson noticed Holmes's hands tighten around whatever he had been holding and his heart suddenly sank with realization. He stepped back up to the bedside and fell to his knees in front of Holmes. Gently taking his hands, he met no resistance as he peeled back his fingers to reveal the morocco case. With a sigh of relief, Watson noticed that it was unopened.

"Oh, Holmes. You don't need this, old boy."

"Do you think I would try to travel while … while inebriated?"

Watson didn't respond as he pulled the case from Holmes's hands and shoved it in the bedside drawer. Holmes's breath hitched slightly as he lost sight of his drug.

"I'm sorry," Watson sighed, rising and coming to sit next to Holmes on the bed. "I'm terribly sorry about dinner and everything that proceeded."

Holmes gave a curt nod and let his head fall onto Watson's shoulder. Tentatively, he seized Watson's hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. It was probably the closest thing Watson was going to get to an apology, and he was willing to accept that.

Watson pressed his lips against Holmes's dark mop of hair and let his chin rest there. "And I'm also sorry that you don't want me to come along. But I assure you I'll be safe. And you'll be safe with me."

"I truly am ready to accept the end of my career, Watson. In any way. Just as long as I can free London of him. You don't need to protect me."

"Holmes."

He fell silent and drew in closer to Watson so his head was now resting on his chest instead of his shoulder. His eyes closed simultaneously with his sigh.

Watson leaned back onto the pillows, pulling Holmes with him and wrapping his arms around his back. The bed creaked under their combined weight.

Absently, Holmes began to trace lazy circles on the fabric covering Watson's chest. If anyone were to witness their more intimate moments without understanding the bizarre nature of their friendship, there was a possibility the two of them would see hard labor or a prison sentence. Only a few decades ago, it would have been the noose.

Despite appearances, they had never gone further than a chaste kiss several years back. It had caught them both by surprise, seeing as how Watson had originally gone for his cheek. He still didn't know what had happened … or why he had even felt the need to kiss Holmes's cheek in the first place.

Nothing changed between them. The kiss itself hadn't been awkward or unnatural. It just happened and they continued on as normal.

"I turned my head."

"What?" Watson asked, shocked.

"I turned my head as you went in to kiss my cheek," Holmes clarified. Watson imagined that he was blushing by now – a faint pink color dusting his cheek bones. "But it was an accident, you know. I have to confess I didn't know what you were doing."

"And yet you read my mind just now," Watson laughed shakily. "How did you…?"

Holmes smiled and rested his chin on Watson's sternum, meeting his eyes. "Your lips are pursed ever so slightly and your eyes have been on my own lips for quite some time now. And, your fingers brushed my cheek earlier. You all but told me your thoughts."

The corner of Watson's mouth twisted up in a smile. He said nothing as Holmes grinned, pleased with himself. Before drifting away, he went on to adjust his head so his ear was right above Watson's heart.

Watson closed his eyes, too. The terrible night was behind them, but now Holmes's words were echoing through his head.

_I truly am ready to accept the end of my career, Watson. In any way._


	3. Chapter 3

**The Problem**

Chapter 3/8 (not including the epilogue)

Characters: Watson, Holmes, Peter Steiler, Mycroft Holmes, Mrs. Hudson, Inspector Lestrade, Constable Clark.

Pairing: Holmes/Watson

Rating: PG-13/R for language, graphic injuries and sexual situations throughout the eight chapters and epilogue.

Summary: A re-write of "The Final Problem." Holmes and Watson acknowledge their feelings while traveling through the Continent to escape Professor Moriarty, but a tragedy at Reichenbach Falls puts everything in jeopardy. Watson must help Holmes through his recovery while the threat of Moriarty's henchmen still lingers.

Note: Written after a prompt for a one-shot was given to me by Lia Walker. It kind of went out of control. This story will be updated daily and is not a work in progress. I hope you enjoy it!

* * *

_Chapter Three_

Watson awoke before Holmes the next morning – a rare occurrence. His head was still placed on Watson's chest and his body was still slightly curled up and angled towards the doctor. His light snoring was causing the fabric of Watson's nightshirt to ripple slightly. And there was a little spot of dribble from Holmes's slightly parted lips.

"Adorable," Watson muttered to himself, eyeing the wet patch with contempt. But still, he wasn't used to seeing Holmes so vulnerable. It was rather endearing, but it worried Watson nonetheless. This was so unlike him.

"Holmes," Watson said, attempting to rouse him by shaking his shoulder. Holmes's eyelids fluttered and closed again.

Watson pulled himself up into a seating position, disturbing Holmes's place on his chest. Holmes sat up instantly and threw his legs over the side of the bed before grabbing his pocket watch on the nightstand.

"You should've awoken me earlier, Watson," Holmes commented nonchalantly as he snapped the watch closed again. He crossed the room, pulled a few garments from his bag and began to dress in a flurry.

Watson rolled his eyes and stood up from the bed. "Well, you looked so irresistible. Drooling all over my shirt and everything."

Holmes's eyes locked in on Watson's chest the wet stain. A deep blush that he had no control over rose to his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. "Watson…" he said warningly.

Watson gave him a teasing grin and ran for the door, closing it behind him just as a shoe bounced off the frame.

* * *

After making their way to Geneva, they spent a week traveling through the Valley of Rhone. For Watson, it was a truly amazing experience and allowed him to briefly forget about the danger they were in. Everything felt safe in the quiet valleys and mountain passes. The small Alpine villages were full of friendly residents willing to give foreigners directions, food and a place to rest their heads before heading off to hike the countryside once again. Everything about the land was so breathtaking.

On several occasions, Watson found himself suggesting that they take a holiday in Switzerland when they were under less pressure. Each time Watson mentioned the idea, Holmes's lips would tug up in an uncaring smile before he went back to scanning their surroundings, searching for any danger.

Only a day or so later while trekking along the Gemmi Pass, they began to walk the border of Daubensee. The area was still just as beautiful – full of rugged cliffs and scattered boulders upon the green grass. The lake itself was clear, quiet and still. Holmes had been rather silent that day and had decided to walk several yards ahead of Watson and their guide. This made the doctor worry at first, but he had soon been drawn into conversation with their friendly companion who, thankfully, spoke a fair amount of English.

"What part of Switzerland are we in now, exactly?" Watson asked, feeling foolish.

"Valais, sir."

"Ah," Watson nodded. "Southwest, is it?"

"Yes, Doctor," their guide answered. "The lake here is certainly beautiful, but I'm sure you've seen some of our more famous landmarks?"

"Yes, of course. The Valley…"

Watson trailed off when he noticed that the guide was distracted. He followed his gaze. Ahead of them, a large rock was tumbling down a nearby cliff towards Holmes. Watson felt his breath catch in his throat as he broke into a sprint, hindered by his limp.

Holmes, of course, had already noticed the dislodged boulder and had stepped away to safety as it plummeted into the lake. Just as Watson reached him, out of breath and nearly hysterical, Holmes leapt up and scaled the ridge. Watson tried to demand that he come down, but the only sounds that escaped his lips were prolonged huffs and puffs as he sunk onto the grass to nurse his leg.

After he took a look around, Holmes descended rather gracefully and glanced down at Watson as if surprised to see him there.

"Fallen rocks are very common during this time of the year, sir," the guide assured Holmes as he hurried over to their spot. Holmes shrugged a shoulder, still staring down at Watson.

"Your leg giving you trouble?" Holmes asked as he extended his hand to the doctor.

Watson seized the hand and grimaced as Holmes pulled him to his feet. Holmes stared at him meaningfully for a moment or two, silently conveying the message Watson already knew. Danger was finally beginning to close in.

* * *

They arrived in Meiringen – a town sitting north of the Aare River and east of Lake Brienzersee – and booked into the Englishcer Hof. After thanking their guide and taking dinner, they retired to their rooms early. Watson was readying for bed when he heard his door swing open.

"Holmes! I'm dressing!"

"Mr. Steiler suggests we pass the falls of Reichenbach on our way to Rosenlaui," Holmes announced, ignoring him. "It will only be a small detour, he says."

Watson rolled his eyes but nodded anyway as he changed from the hotel's dressing robe – his own wardrobe still waiting in France – into his nightclothes. "He's quite nice, Peter Steiler. His English is excellent."

"I would hope so. He spent three years at the Grosvenor as a waiter before coming here to manage the hotel."

Watson nodded again and turned to his bed to find Holmes already curled up in the blankets.

"Well, hello," Watson said, sliding in next to him.

"I'm staying in here tonight."

"I can see that."

"Oh, don't act so disgruntled."

Watson laughed out loud. "I'm not disgruntled."

"It's a matter of personal safety."

"Holmes, I understand."

Watson settled down against the pillow and reached out to draw Holmes closer. But the detective shied away.

"I refuse. You only want me to drool on your shirt again so you can continue to harass and belittle me … I know the opportunity doesn't often arise for you."

"Bastard," Watson growled, grabbing Holmes's arm and pulling him near. Holmes didn't resist this time and let his head fall next to Watson's on the pillow. Watson couldn't help it, then. He turned his head to the side and placed a light kiss on the tip of Holmes's nose.

Holmes openly smiled for a few peaceful seconds before he punched Watson's shoulder.

Watson gasped and seized the wrist of Holmes's retreating hand. "What on Earth was that for?"

"For calling me names and then trying to charm your way out of it."

"Well, it worked didn't it? You were quite starry-eyed for a moment there – ow!"

Holmes had twisted out of his grip and was now pinning Watson against the mattress, hovering over him. "Are you quite through with your attempts to make me look like a fool?"

"It's just as you said. The opportunity doesn't often arise. Will you unhand me?"

"Will you apologize?"

"Of course not."

Holmes rolled his eyes. "You are not nearly as alluring as you seem to – "

Watson took that moment to flip Holmes onto his back and hold his arms down to his sides. Holmes grunted angrily and tried to kick him off, but Watson held his legs together by squeezing them between his own.

"I could easily lift my knee and harm you in a very ungentlemanly place," Holmes announced casually. "What would Mrs. Watson have to say about that?"

Watson hesitated and relaxed his legs again, ignoring the dull throb of his old war wound. Holmes could've thrown him off at that point, but he stayed underneath him.

"She probably wouldn't mind much," Watson answered bitterly. He let go of Holmes's arms and propped himself up with his elbows. "In fact, the visit she's on now is … well, it's prolonged."

Holmes blinked up at him, but his expression didn't change. He had most likely deduced this long ago. "I see."

They both fell silent as the mention of Mary suddenly made their current position feel incredibly awkward. Watson couldn't recall the last time they had amused themselves by wrestling like adolescent boys, but he knew it must have occurred before his marriage.

"Is that the extent of your assault?" Holmes asked, poking his chest.

Watson let his brow rest against Holmes's and took a deep breath, closing his eyes. Holmes noticeably tensed and grabbed Watson's upper arm.

"Will you do something for me?" Watson asked, his lips suddenly against Holmes's ear.

"I – "

"Would you kiss me?"

Holmes was a little sloppy and unskilled at first. Watson couldn't help but laugh inwardly at his technique, which was to simply open his mouth and slam his face into Watson's. After only a few seconds of this, Watson snorted and let his forehead drop down against his neck. His entire body was shaking with laughter

"Get off," Holmes snapped, placing his hands flat against Watson's chest and pushing.

"I'm sorry," Watson said, still laughing as he lifted his head. "It's just that you're rather adorable right now and I'm pleased to find that there's something in this world that I'm better at."

Holmes scoffed and pushed him again. _"Get off!"_

"Holmes," Watson breathed, bending back down to kiss him just as Holmes craned his neck to the side, cursing. Watson gently grabbed his jaw and pressed their lips together once more.

All the tension in Holmes's body suddenly deflated as Watson began to carefully move his lips against Holmes's. Still, they pulled away from one another rather quickly.

"Well," Holmes muttered, letting his head fall back against the pillows as he stared up at the ceiling. "There were several consent issues just now." His eyes met Watson's and he smiled slightly, reaching up to brush his cheek with his finger tips. "But considering the circumstances…"

Watson twisted his own fingers in Holmes's own hair. "Will you do something else for me?"

"Watson…" Holmes warned.

"I only want you to answer a question," Watson clarified, rolling off of Holmes and onto his back.

"…Fine."

Watson adjusted himself once again so he was resting on his side with his head propped up by one hand. He closed his eyes as he began to speak, suddenly terrified of Holmes's reaction. "Did you feel something? Anything at all? A thrill or … or a rush of emotion? Because the first time we kissed, nothing came of it. It was like it never happened."

"Watson."

"I want to know if anything changed."

Watson warily opened his eyes as Holmes fell silent. After several painful seconds, Holmes leaned in and pressed a careful kiss on the corner of Watson's lips.

"Nothing has ever been the same since then."

* * *

Watson awoke to rough, chapped lips against his own. It was such a refreshing change after becoming so accustomed to the lips of women, which tended to be soft, smooth and far too delicate. Eyes still closed, Watson grinned as Holmes's stubble rubbed against his cheek as the detective kissed his ear.

"Am I getting better?"

Watson opened his eyes to find Holmes over his body on all fours, his face now buried in the area between Watson's ear and shoulder. Watson laughed and sat up quickly, grabbing Holmes's thighs and forcing him to settle down into his lap.

Holmes sighed contently and kissed the hinge of Watson's jaw, letting his lips linger. He _was_ getting better. Watson's heart quickened and a heat pooled in the bottom of his stomach, filling Watson's mind with ideas that Holmes probably wouldn't agree to just yet. Things that he wasn't even ready to try. But still, he found himself yearning for Baker Street where they could have all the time in the world to explore. He imagined them curled up together by the hearth, safe in London. Learning, experimenting. While Watson had considerable experience with women, he was more than positive that Holmes had none at all. With any gender. This would be a new experience for both of them and it would allow Watson the chance to introduce Holmes to something very special.

Watson's desire cooled, and he was thankful that Holmes hadn't seemed to notice any change at all. It might have scared him off. And what if he never wanted to be … intimate? But Watson couldn't worry about that right now. At the moment, Holmes seemed very interested in his lips.

"When we get back to London…" Watson said between quick, darting kisses. "…and the divorce is settled – _mmf_ – I can move back in."

Holmes met his eyes briefly before they flickered away. "Well, yes, of course. I'd love to have you back at Baker Street. But let's not get ahead of ourselves, Watson."

"Ahead of ourselves?"

"Well, divorce is a tricky thing and it could take some time," Holmes explained, although his tone suggested that the divorce really wasn't the issue.

Watson could feel himself beginning to panic. "We both know I can easily move in before the divorce is finalized, Holmes. So what is it really? Are you afraid of getting caught? Afraid of something else? Please, if you just tell me … I'd do anything to fix it."

An appreciative, warm smile spread across Holmes's face and he kissed him once more. "My business here isn't through yet, Watson. And both of us have to get back to London."

Watson seized Holmes's shoulders and pushed him back slightly, holding him at arm's length. "Don't say that. Don't even dare to _think _it."

"I'm only being realistic," Holmes reasoned, his detective persona rapidly replacing the passionate, loving one Watson was quickly beginning to adore. "Anything could happen to me. Moriarty could do me in. Or one of his goons."

"Or you could slip and bash your head in on a rock. Or get trampled by a hansom. Maybe when we get back to London, you'll fall into the Thames and drown. Or … should I go on?"

"I don't believe I follow you."

"With your lifestyle, Holmes, you're taking risks every day. And there's no doubt you would have died a long time ago if I hadn't been there to pull you out of every mess you manage to get yourself in. I've been there to catch you before you fall, keep you from running out in front of hansoms on a daily basis and I can't even count the number of times I've hauled you out of the Thames. What makes you think I would ever let anything or anyone hurt you?"

Holmes started at him for a beat. "I knew you were a romantic, Watson. But this is just disgusting."

Watson tilted his head to the side and blinked innocently. "Really? Because I think the truly romantic at heart would wake up their companions with kisses."

Instead of blushing or screaming protests at Watson or storming out of the room, Holmes just grinned.

"You're a fair opponent in this game, Watson," he said, allowing his defeat.

Watson could get used to this.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Problem**

Chapter 4/8 (not including the epilogue)

Characters: Watson, Holmes, Peter Steiler, Mycroft Holmes, Mrs. Hudson, Inspector Lestrade, Constable Clark.

Pairing: Holmes/Watson

Rating: PG-13/R for language, graphic injuries and sexual situations throughout the eight chapters and epilogue.

Summary: A re-write of "The Final Problem." Holmes and Watson acknowledge their feelings while traveling through the Continent to escape Professor Moriarty, but a tragedy at Reichenbach Falls puts everything in jeopardy. Watson must help Holmes through his recovery while the threat of Moriarty's henchmen still lingers.

Disclaimer: I don't own these lovely characters. Also, as we delve into the medical aspects of this story I'd like to add that **I am not a doctor and have no medical experience**, although I have landed myself in the ER a few times for being a reckless idiot. So, please, be kind. Everything was researched to the best of my ability and certain aspects were discussed over at studyinsherlock. Still, there's always the possibility of mistakes.

Note: Written after a prompt for a one-shot was given to me by Lia Walker. It kind of went out of control. This story will be updated daily and is not a work in progress. I hope you enjoy it!

* * *

_Chapter Four_

"It's rather beautiful, isn't it?" Holmes called to Watson loudly over the roar of the falls, stepping closer to the ledge they were standing on.

Watson looked from Holmes to the path behind them – the path that had led them to this frightening place. The path that ended here, looming over the thick, thundering stream of clear water. The cliffs surrounding the falls were jagged, black and sharp. Most sloped downward, pointing towards the dark and fearsome pool that twisted and flowed below. The falls produced a white mist that rose up to meet their ledge. It could've been comfortable, welcome drizzle. But it only made Watson shiver.

Watson reached out and took Holmes's hand, drawing him back from the ledge. "All right. We've seen it. On to Rosenlaui, old boy."

"You've barely taken a glance at it, Watson," Holmes pointed out. "This entire time, you've been grumbling about how I supposedly don't admire the scenery and now you won't even – "

"It makes me uneasy. That's all."

Holmes's face softened and he nodded before squeezing Watson's hand and turning back towards the path, descending down the trail. Watson followed after. The screaming of the falls faded behind them and Watson could breathe easy again.

Holmes, of course, noticed his friend's discomfort and seemed mildly amused. Watson shot him a sidelong, warning look that stopped Holmes from commenting. Still, the detective smiled privately and nudged Watson's shoulder with his own.

They walked on like this for the next five minutes or so, basking in a welcome silence, hands brushing every now and then and eyes wandering for two entirely different reasons. Watson kept trying to catch Holmes's, but his friend was too busy scanning the surrounding trees for any signs of disturbance. All Watson wanted was for night to come again so he could wrap Holmes in his arms, stroke his hair, kiss every place his lips could reach … he wanted that Holmes. The Holmes who would allow him to do those things. This Holmes, while Watson loved him just the same, was very much the cold and calculating machine Watson had written him as. All Watson had to do was stick with him through the remainder of this case and help Holmes see it through. Soon, he would have a calm Holmes who could finally be at peace knowing he had taken down London's largest criminal ring.

But Watson wasn't a fool. He knew there would be other cases. Cases that would cause Holmes to run off, leaving Watson to fret and worry. Cases that would make Holmes irritable and even unlikable. Cases that would sway his mind from Watson and briefly turn him into the man who used to laugh and mock love.

It wouldn't be easy. But Watson had witnessed and was witnessing the hidden nature of Holmes. Now he knew that part of him was there and he was willing to fight for it, if or when it came down to that.

"_Herr_ _Doktor_ Watson! _Herr_ _Doktor_ Watson!"

Watson's eyes shot forward in slight alarm and he stopped abruptly, automatically reaching out to grasp Holmes's sleeve. Holmes merely pushed his hand away and blinked at the skinny, blonde Swiss boy who was running up the path to meet them with a paper in his hands.

"_Herr Doktor_ Watson!" the boy called again as he came to a stop in front of them at last, breathless.

Holmes gestured vaguely at Watson and thrust his hands into his pockets, starting at the ground. Watson looked from Holmes to the boy and held out his hand. "That's me."

"A message from _Herr _Steiler," the boy explained, shoving a note that bore the hotel's seal into Watson's hand.

Watson opened the letter and read over it carefully, frowning slightly. A woman, in the final stages of consumption and suffering from a hemorrhage while traveling to Lucerne, had recently arrived at the Englischer Hof. She was an Englishwoman, and though she only had a few hours left to live, wanted the comfort of a doctor from her homeland. Steiler noted that he was clueless and desperately needed Watson's assistance.

Watson handed the letter over to Holmes, gauging his expression as he read over it. His face stayed cold and unmoving. Only when he handed the letter back to Watson did the corner of his mouth twitch downwards.

"Very well," he said, not meeting Watson's stare. "You'll have to go back, old boy. You can't refuse a fellow countrywoman."

"I know," Watson agreed uncertainly, wringing the letter in his hands. "Come back with me, Holmes?"

Holmes finally met his gaze and stared at him for a long while as the messenger boy fidgeted nervously, watching them. Finally Holmes shook his head. "No, no Watson. The boy will show me the way. I can't have you slowing me down. Not this time."

Watson bit back a hurt gasp and he turned his face away from the two of them, blinking rapidly to keep a rush of tears at bay. He quickly composed himself and turned back, clearing his throat.

"All right. In Rosenlaui, then," Watson said in a tone he hoped was identical to Holmes's frigid demeanor.

It must have worked. Just as Watson turned to walk down the path and the Swiss lad started ahead of Holmes, his back to the couple, Holmes frantically reached out to grab Watson's arm.

Watson immediately shook him off and quickened his pace, leaving Holmes behind.

In mere seconds, Watson began to feel like the fool he knew he was. Just moments before that letter arrived, he had been thinking of all the ways he would deal with the Holmes he had just observed. None of it involved treating him like this. He would have to learn to control his temper. To not expect so many changes so fast…

Watson turned back to look over his shoulder. Holmes was leaning against a rock with his arms folded and eyes unseeing. Watson wanted so badly to call up to him, but it was too late. Holmes turned and followed after their messenger.

Watson set down on the path once again, passing a hand over his face to rid himself of the tears that were already sprinkled on his cheek. Everything would be fine. He would meet Holmes at Rosenlaui that evening. They would have dinner, apologize, curl up together in bed, enjoy the other's warmth, promise to try and make things better…

He finally made it to the bottom of the decline after about an hour. During this time, his mind had wandered from Holmes and was focusing on what he could do to make the Englishwoman's passing comfortable. When he reached flatter ground, he looked back up the twisting path to the falls where he suddenly saw a flash of black disappear over one of the small ridges.

Watson thought nothing more of it as he hurried along. A bird or a trick of the eye. Nothing else.

At least twenty minutes later, he finally hobbled into the village and made his way to the hotel. His leg was in a fair amount of pain and, though he felt guilty as the thought crossed his mind, he was already looking forward to sitting next to the woman's sickbed.

"I trust that she is no worse?" Watson panted as he hurried up to Steiler, who was standing on his porch.

Steiler looked up and raised his eyebrows, surprised. "Doctor?"

Watson felt as though he had been punched in the stomach. He fell forward slightly and caught himself by grasping the wooden railing of the porch. With trembling hands, he pulled the letter out of his pocket. "Y-You did not write this?"

Steiler was peering at the hotel seal now, his head tilted. Watson closed his eyes.

"There is no sick Englishwoman in the hotel?'

"Certainly not!"

Watson whimpered and his hand tightened on the railing.

"But it has the hotel mark upon it!" said Steiler, apparently not noticing Watson's distress. "It must have been written by that tall Englishman who came in after you had gone. He said – "

"Send help up to Reichenbach."

Steiler gasped in surprise and rambled on, but Watson heard no more. Ignoring the objections of his throbbing leg, he took off down the street and up the path. An hour. It had taken him an hour to come down from the falls and it would take him double that, if not more, to climb back up. Ignoring this sudden twinge of realization, he did his best to quicken his run and travel on up the trail.

Time didn't matter, though. He lost track of it as his head swirled with exhaustion and his leg burned, feeling as though fire had been set to it. Too many times he fell forward and caught himself with his hands and returned to his feet with bloody palms, scraped against the rocks. The knees of his trousers were shredded. He had slipped down the path several times, losing distance over and over again. On top of it all, his vision was foggy from the tears that were already spilling over.

He had to trust Holmes on this. He had to trust that he could take care of himself. That he could outwit Moriarty as he ultimately did with all of his adversaries. It didn't matter that Holmes had described him as his intellectual equal or the Napoleon of crime. This was _Holmes. _

Three hours. A little over one hour down and what he thought to be two hours back up. Three hours since he had left Holmes. But finally, Watson made it back to the falls. It was hard to think clearly after his painful trek back up, but the relentless roaring of Reichenbach made everything worse. Still, it was easy enough to see that there was no sign of Holmes.

Dizzily, Watson stumbled towards the ledge and fell forward to lean against a large boulder. His hand brushed against something and there was a dull, wooden thunk as it smacked against the ground.

Watson forced his eyes open. Holmes's Alpine-stock, which must have been previously leaning against the rock, had fallen to the ground.

This was good. This meant that he _had _to be nearby. But why had he walked back up the path to the falls? They had just left the area when the Swiss boy approached them.

"Holmes!" Watson screamed out against the noise. He only heard his echo bounce off the nearby rocks. Another scream tore through his throat. _"Holmes!"_

Upon learning that Moriarty had been the one to fabricate the note, there had been no doubt in Watson's mind that their messenger had been manipulated by the professor. That much had been clear. But the horror of it all was finally starting to settle in. The boy had left Holmes. Left him with Moriarty.

And, oh God … Holmes had tried to grab his arm. He knew. He had tried to stop and tell him just as the boy walked ahead. What had he wanted Watson to do? Find help? Intercept Moriarty? He hadn't stopped to listen. He brushed Holmes off and stalked away, angry.

And to think that that might have been their final interaction. But it couldn't…

Watson threw himself to the ground with a sudden, pained wail as the tears flowed over once again. He didn't know how long he was on his hands and knees, allowing pathetic sobs to control and overtake him. But he finally cleared his throat and wiped his eyes, his entire body still trembling. He had to finish this. He had to use Holmes's own methods to come to a conclusion. To find closure for himself. To find _him_ … dead or alive.

He stood up carefully and immediately fell back against the boulder, the tears coming in streams. His chest started to heave violently and he knew what was coming. Stumbling into a grassy area, he lost that morning's breakfast.

There would be no closure. Not when he had caused this. He had killed him. This was just as much his fault as it was the professor's.

He took a few more minutes to attempt to calm down. But once he was finally breathing normally again and the tears had been blinked back, it all started over. Perhaps ten minutes passed before he finally wandered towards the border of the cliff.

There he found two sets of fresh footprints. One he recognized to be Holmes's shoe, but the other print was foreign to him. Moriarty's, no doubt. Watson sank to his knees and touched the imprint of Holmes's boot before following it to the edge where there was a muddle of the two separate prints. Neither returned from the ledge. So Moriarty had fallen, too.

Slowly and carefully, trying his best to not allow this current rush of rage and despair take a hold of him, he leaned further over the rocks and stared down into the falls.

He had expected to see one or two mangled bodies on the rocks. Or maybe nothing at all. It was possible that they could be shielded by the mist or carried downstream where they could be recovered.

But what he hadn't expected was to see Holmes's body on a ledge nearly fifteen feet below Watson's.

He let out a half-human cry that couldn't be described as either joy or horror. It was an odd mix, as he wasn't sure what to feel. Relief, certainly. But there was dread, too. This wasn't over. Holmes wasn't moving…

"HOLMES!" Watson called, louder this time. Holmes didn't stir, though it was unlikely he could even hear him over Reichenbach.

Cursing all the time he had wasted sobbing and mourning, Watson scanned the area for a safe way down to his friend. Off to the left of Watson's ledge was a rocky, steep hill that led downwards before dropping off entirely. Maybe five feet under that drop-off and a little over three feet to the right was Holmes's ledge. It might not have been the only way, but Watson didn't have time to consider other routes.

He started down the hill, feet first and grasping the rocks tightly as he went, looking over his shoulder to watch his descent. Luckily, most of the rocks were securely situated in the ground and he could easily spot the loose ones by tapping them with his foot before pressing down with his full weight. He could use those same rocks as holds for his hands the further down he went.

He finally made it to the end of the hill and eyed Holmes's ledge, gauging the distance. Taking a deep breath, he propelled himself off and landed safely feet first next to Holmes's body. At this point, his leg hurt beyond all belief. But he ignored it as he fell down onto his knees next to Holmes.

Holmes had landed on his right shoulder, facing the wall of the cliff. Tugging the back of his jacket and shirt up, Watson felt along his back and detected no damage. The same went for the neck. This was good – spine and neck injuries usually proved to be fatal or crippling. Holmes, who was practiced in martial arts, obviously knew how to land during a fall. To Watson, it appeared as though he had attempted to either roll or land on his feet. Watson couldn't be sure which.

Watson gently took Holmes's left shoulder and pushed it down, rolling him onto his back. He grabbed his wrist and pressed two fingers against his pulse point. There was a beat. A faint, trembling one. But it was a beat nonetheless. Then he placed his hand just a few centimeters from Holmes's lips. A few cold, uneven breaths coasted his palm and Watson let his fingers fall to brush the corners of his mouth.

Trembling, Watson pulled his hand away and grabbed Holmes's wrist, bringing it up to his lips and kissing it lightly as an unspoken promise, urging Holmes to hold on. Now, he moved to Holmes's right side to assess the damage.

He took off Holmes's boot and socks and started at the feet. The right ankle was twisted almost completely backwards. His entire foot was swollen to nearly twice its size. Watson took out his pocketknife and cut along the seam of Holmes's trousers. The bruises extended up to his calf, where there was sure to be more damage.

Traveling up the rest of Holmes's right side, Watson found his outer thigh painted with dark, black bruises. The hip could've been fractured, dislocated … Watson couldn't be sure about that now.

He unbuttoned Holmes's waistcoat and pulled up his shirt. Broken and bruised ribs. That was expected. His shoulder was dislocated and his humerus was broken.

The right side of his face wasn't nearly as unsightly as all the crimson liquid flowing from one deep gash on his cheek suggested. His entire right ear was covered in blood, but that was because his lobe had been torn halfway off. It was nothing a few stitches couldn't fix. His jaw was bruised, but after gently prodding at it, Watson found nothing wrong. His temple, cheek and forehead only had both major and minor bruising and surface wounds.

Finally, Watson knelt down behind Holmes's head and propped him up slightly, half holding him. Watson pressed the front of his own shirt against the back of Holmes's head and brought back blood.

"Oh, God," Watson muttered faintly, tearing off some of his trouser leg and nursing Holmes's head with it. Carefully dragging Holmes along with him, Watson let his back fall against the wall of the cliff and gently gathered Holmes up into his lap so his back was pressed to Watson's chest. From this angle, Watson kept one arm around him loosely and the other hand holding the scrap of his clothing against Holmes's injury.

It was only then that Watson realized how unbearably freezing their current location was. They were both soaked to the bone from the spray of the falls, and Holmes had been there much, much longer. Cursing himself, Watson shrugged out of his jacket and threw it over Holmes's body. He drew Holmes closer to him – as close as his injuries would allow.

"It's all right," he promised, his voice breaking. His fingers slipped down to press against Holmes's wrist again. The faint beat was still there.

"I've got you."

Watson let Holmes's head fall back against his chest, the cloth a barrier between them. Now, with both hands, he moved to rub Holmes's freezing ones between his own.

But a look at Holmes's hands had Watson's stomach reeling. Strange that the rest of the injuries didn't have this affect.

Holmes's hands were mangled. Nails were missing. Entire fingers were snapped and falling at odd angles. How had he not noticed this when taking Holmes's pulse the first time? Clearly, the detective had tried to save himself by grabbing hold of anything he could on his way down and his hands had suffered from it. Holding back a choked sob, Watson covered Holmes's hands with the coat and kissed his left cheek – the one free from all the blood and scrapes.

He held Holmes like that for over an hour, it seemed. By this time, Watson was trembling violently from the coldness of his soaked clothes. Holmes's lips were blue and his face completely pale and ghostlike. Watson knew he couldn't get Holmes up to the top of the cliff alone, but he also wasn't going to leave him here. Not for a moment.

After another half hour, he decided that no one was coming. That Steiler, for whatever reason, didn't send help.

He considered the possibility that they would die there. Watson checked Holmes's pulse regularly, knowing that he would let himself give in once Holmes faded away. As though Holmes knew exactly what he was thinking, the pulse soldiered on.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Problem**

Chapter 5/8 (not including the epilogue)

Characters: Watson, Holmes, Peter Steiler, Mycroft Holmes, Mrs. Hudson, Inspector Lestrade, Constable Clark.

Pairing: Holmes/Watson

Rating: PG-13/R for language, graphic injuries and sexual situations throughout the eight chapters and epilogue.

Summary: A re-write of "The Final Problem." Holmes and Watson acknowledge their feelings while traveling through the Continent to escape Professor Moriarty, but a tragedy at Reichenbach Falls puts everything in jeopardy. Watson must help Holmes through his recovery while the threat of Moriarty's henchmen still lingers.

Disclaimer: I don't own these lovely characters. Also, as we delve into the medical aspects of this story I'd like to add that **I am not a doctor and have no medical experience**, although I have landed myself in the ER a few times for being a reckless idiot. So, please, be kind. Everything was researched to the best of my ability and certain aspects were discussed over at studyinsherlock. Still, there's always the possibility of mistakes.

Note: Written after a prompt for a one-shot was given to me by Lia Walker. It kind of went out of control. This story will be updated daily and is not a work in progress. I hope you enjoy it!

**Sorry this update took a bit longer. So busy today.**

**

* * *

**

_Chapter Five_

Brandy touched his lips and slid across his tongue, down his throat. Watson's eyes shot open and he gave a startled yelp.

Leaning over him was Peter Steiler, holding a flask to his lips. Steiler's hand was pressed against Watson's cheek as his eyes scanned over him worriedly. By now, Watson was taking in deep gulps of air and panting audibly. Steiler's brow furrowed and he fell back into a chair situated by Watson's bedside.

His _bedside?_

Now Watson was able to take in his surroundings. He was cocooned in hot, white blankets and dressed in clean pajamas. It took him a moment to realize it, but he was so warm that he was actually sweating. Watson pushed away some of the constricting blankets and sat up straight against the headboard, staring at the room before him. He was at the Englishcer Hof.

"The doctors had to sedate you," Steiler said slowly, capping the flask and setting it down on his bedside. His eyes flickered to Watson's and he sighed. "You've been out for nearly five hours."

Watson stared at him for a moment, focusing on the words hidden under Steiler's thick accent. The ground beneath his bed seemed to shift as realization suddenly struck him. "Holmes…"

Watson moved to throw his legs over the edge of the bed, but a gentle hand on his knee stopped him.

"Please, a moment, Doctor. You should allow me to explain all that has happened."

"But I have to – "

"The doctors have been very efficient," Steiler said, his voice soothing. "Mister Holmes has been through several hours of surgery, and they have taken care of his injuries. The bones have been set, he's stitched up. They're watching intently for any infections. Now, he's suffering from hypothermia and he's still very, very cold. But they don't expect there to be any lasting problems."

"Hypothermia?" Watson repeated, voice cracking.

"Yes. But he's going to be just fine. They're working on raising his body temperature now."

Watson covered his face with both hands and moaned. "He's been asking for me. Hasn't he? He's probably been asking and begging for me and the doctors had to tell him I've been _sleeping…"_

"They had to sedate you," Steiler reminded him.

"Why?" Watson snapped.

"I sent for help. Just as you asked. They went up to Reichenbach with ropes and harnesses. The authorities are very prepared for these types of emergencies, considering our location. But they only brought along one stretcher. You weren't injured, so they took Mister Holmes first. They pulled you up next, some time after a few of the men rushed Mister Holmes back down the path. They were going to wait for a second stretcher, but you insisted you were fine and walked down the path yourself. You were freezing, they said, and very persistent. But quiet. They took you to the hospital. When you realized they were treating you instead of taking you to see Mister Holmes, you … you became very upset. You panicked and hurt one of the doctors. They sedated you, checked your body for any injuries. You were cold, they said. But not nearly enough to be suffering from hypothermia. So they warmed you up and released you from the hospital. I brought you here and was instructed to keep the bed sheets warm. Just as a precaution."

"I don't remember any of it," Watson admitted.

Steiler's eyes widened in brief surprise, but he nodded regardless. "That's not unusual after experiencing such a tragedy. Is it not, Doctor?"

"No," Watson agreed, standing from the bed. Steiler rose from his chair and pressed a hand to Watson's shoulder, steadying him.

"Doctor, there's something you should know."

Watson brushed him off, standing up right. He felt surprisingly steady as he crossed the room and grabbed the suitcase Steiler had obviously brought into the room. He grabbed around for an outfit and turned to the innkeeper.

"I cannot thank you enough for everything you've done. But I can't stay here any longer. Not when Holmes needs me. Could you point me in the direction of the hospital? I believe I've passed it before, but I'm not – "

"Doctor Watson," Steiler sighed, staring at the wall just past Watson's shoulder. "Mister Holmes … he's still … he's still unconscious."

Watson's jaw tightened and he nodded stiffly. "Well. I…he…"

"They have reason to believe he could be in … I'm not sure of how you say it in English, Doctor, Forgive me."

"In a coma," Watson offered blankly.

"Yes."

"Please," Watson began unsteadily. "Allow me to dress. And then I would very grateful if you would accompany me to the hospital and help me converse with the doctors. My German is limited."

"Of course," Steiler offered quietly, slipping out of the room and closing the door softly. The moment Watson heard the door latch into place and Steiler's footsteps trotting down the hallway, he sunk against the wall and brought his knees to his chest, gasping and sobbing. This was the last time, he told himself. From here on out, he could no longer be weak. He had to see Holmes through this. He couldn't let his own emotions cripple him any longer

* * *

Steiler had to know. Watson's eyes were noticeably red and puffy and he couldn't help but sniff occasionally. Luckily, Steiler said nothing as they entered the hospital and were directed to Holmes's room.

He was bundled up in blankets identical to the ones Watson had woken up in. They were pulled up to his chin and curled under his shoulders, concealing the rest of his body from view. Watson's eyes landed on Holmes's face. The blue that had once colored his lips was gone, but his face was still pale. Pale enough that, if Watson hadn't know the truth, he would have thought Holmes to be dead. His earlobe was stitched up, but still badly disfigured. Watson tried not to think of how he could've done a better job – it was just an earlobe, he told himself – and focused in on the large gash on Holmes's cheek. The blood had, of course, been wiped away and now there was only a raised stripe of red that extended from the center of his cheek to the cheekbone. It was a thin gash, though, and not very long at all. It must have been deep to produce all the blood. It appeared that all of the surface scratches had already started to scab over.

There was a bandage wrapped around his forehead with extra padding on the back of his skull where Watson had found the injury. Watson could already see the blood soaking through and onto his pillow.

"My God," Watson cried, all but running to Holmes's bedside and placing a hand on the undamaged cheek. "If they are on the lookout for infections as you told me, they would take better care in changing his bandages! Not to mention covering the wound on his cheek!"

Steiler, who was standing helplessly in the door way, moved to the side as a tall, stone-faced doctor pushed his way into the room.

"_Entschuldigung Sie bitte,"_ the doctor murmured, approaching the bedside and forcing Watson to take a few steps back. Watson watched as he busied himself around Holmes, cleaning the wounds on his face and changing the bandages, as well as the pillows. The doctor removed the blankets, revealing that Holmes was nude except for the uncountable bandages and casts on his body. The doctor replaced the blankets with fresh, warm ones and quickly turned to leave.

"Wait," Watson demanded, beginning to follow him. Steiler, who was closer, reached out and touched the doctor's arm as he spoke rapid German.

The doctor replied, moving his hands animatedly and shrugging his shoulders before he waved Steiler away and tore down the hall.

Steiler bit down on his bottom lip and stared at the floor. "He said Mister Holmes is lucky to, for the most part, be free of life threatening injuries."

"They think the head injury could be … could be fatal?"

Steiler nodded grimly, his eyes moving to Holmes now. "His mind is gone. He might not have the strength to wake up again."

Watson remained calm. Calmer than he had been in days – weeks, even. If he let himself slip, he'd be a quivering mess on the floor again. At the falls, he learned that he didn't have the time to feel sorry for himself. He was a trained solider. A field surgeon. It wasn't in his nature to lose focus, to break down. Things could've been different if he had remembered his training and acted more like a doctor rather than a frightened lover. He had been selfish.

Every moment from here on out … it had to be about Holmes. Or else he would lose him.

"I can't accept that," he said through clenched teeth.

"These things can't be reversed," Steiler insisted. "You're a doctor. You must understand – "

"Oh, God. Get out!"

"Sir – "

"_Leave!"_

Steiler quickly bowed out, leaving Watson standing in the middle of the hospital room with his hands clenched into fists, seething. He liked Steiler and he would be eternally grateful for his help. But at that moment, Watson had felt close to doing something that he surely would have regretted. He would have to apologize for this episode at a later time.

Watson wandered over to the edge of Holmes's bed and sat down on the edge of the mattress, careful not to disturb him. His face was so corpse-like, Watson might have been staring into a coffin. In a startled panic, he felt the pulse point on his neck. The dull throb was still there beneath his fingers. The heart was still beating, pumping blood, keeping him alive … he was alive. Now he just needed to wake up. And he would.

Stealing a glance at the open door to check for any approaching hospital staff, he leaned over and gave Holmes a feather light kiss. His lips were cold, but not too cold to cause much worry. The hypothermia would pass. This would all pass.

"Holmes…" he called softly, a hand reaching up to stroke his dark hair. What could he say now? In the past, when Holmes had managed to land himself in the hospital – no, that wasn't right … he never went to the hospital. He screamed at Watson until he agreed to take him back to Baker Street and care for him there. Watson would try his best to fight back, even though he knew he would give in. In the past when Holmes had been hurt and sentenced to a few days in bed, Watson would threaten him with phrases akin to: "If you had died, I would never forgive you" or "do you have any idea what you've put me through?" It always felt justified to blame Holmes for everything. But how could he now? Not when Watson felt so responsible.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, now drawing little circles at the corner of Holmes's lip with his thumb.

His hand flew from Holmes's face and landed softly on his blanketed chest as the same tall, intimidating doctor came into the room with a syringe. Watson stood from the bed and crossed to the other side of it, watching intently as the doctor pulled back the blankets slightly and inserted the needle into Holmes's soft inner-elbow. It was dotted with old scars – a sight that made Watson's heart sink down into his stomach – but there were also a few fresh ones. He had been receiving these injections every hour or so, Watson assumed.

"What is that?" Watson asked, forgetting the language barrier as the doctor pulled another syringe from his pocket and injected the liquid.

"It keeps him, uh, warm," the doctor replied very slowly, causing Watson to look up from Holmes's arm in surprise. "The other … he cannot eat …" the doctor trailed off.

"Nourishment," Watson supplied, catching on. He held out his hand. "Doctor John Watson."

"_Doktor _Bernd Krause," he said, shaking Watson's hand.

"You speak English?"

Doctor Krause paused for a long while, studying Watson carefully. _"Ein bisschen …_ a little."

Watson's lips quivered into a frown. Apparently the little English he spoke wouldn't be enough, as he looked pained and confused by this simple conversation. Watson offered a forced smile and nodded. _"Danke."_

Doctor Krause nodded back and left the room, looking extremely relieved.

Watson spent the next hour or so keeping guard over Holmes and speaking to him quietly as if he were alert and listening. As he busied himself about the room – pulling blinds to allow sunlight to stream in or fixing the blankets for the hundredth time – he talked about home. London. Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson. Their warm sitting room and the stupid tiger rug Holmes loved so much. He told Holmes he'd give anything to be there with him now, laughing over Watson's published account of this very adventure and how dreadful and frightening it had all been. It would all be over, then. In this vision, Holmes was perfectly healed and Reichenbach, Moriarty … it would all be in the past, only remembered when picking up Watson's text.

Watson finally collapsed into an armchair situated in a corner. His exhaustion was finally catching up with him and his leg would no longer allow pacing around the hospital room. He checked his pocket watch, discovering it was nearly nine in the evening. Watson could hardly believe that he and Holmes had happily woken up together this very morning, breakfasting and sipping tea and discussing their hike to Rosenlaui. It felt like a fond memory of happier times years ago.

He wanted to drift on to sleep. He knew that he could, if he wanted to. Holmes was stable and his doctor had been consistent with the injections and changing his bandages and blankets. He wasn't nearly as pale anymore and his breathing and pulse, although not regulated just yet, were improving. It was amazing, the progress he had made just today.

Other doctors found it pointless and sad, but Watson had always encouraged the families of his patients to talk to their loved ones while they were unconscious. He strongly believed that it made a difference, and families reported improvements all the time. It was nothing that the medical community would take seriously, though, considering that coma patients tended to pass on or come to with or without their family's encouragement. So he only recommended it as a touch-and-go method. He was glad to see that it had some effect at Holmes – that he was stimulating his mind in some way or another, even if the detective couldn't hear him.

Watson pulled a blanket around his shoulders and stood back from the chair, moving to the small table where one of the nurses had supplied him with a pot of tea. He poured himself another cup and downed it quickly, eager to stay up as long as he could. It would feel wrong … sleeping when Holmes was like this.

"The nurse didn't bring in cream or sugar," Watson told Holmes with a shaky laugh. He was very much aware of how silly he sounded. "You would hate it, dear. I know how much you dislike your tea when it's not filled to the brim with sugar cubes."

He shot Holmes an impish grin, but it fell from his face as he took in Holmes's deadpan expression. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, banishing the image and turning away. He set his tea cup down shakily and then pressed into his eyes with the heels of his hands, groaning.

"I still remember … remember when, years and years ago, Mrs. Hudson made that passing comment about how poisoning your tea would serve you right," Watson continued, quickly thumbing away tears. "And you absolutely lost your mind. You were so upset with her. And you insisted that I prepare our tea from then on. That's how I learned exactly how you liked your tea. And you even noticed the difference when I snuck around and asked Mrs. Hudson to make a tray once I tired of it."

He made his way to the bed and took a set on the edge, watching Holmes. "It was stupid of me, really. I always prepared our tea perfectly and Mrs. Hudson never added in the cream or sugar, but included it on the tray so we could mix it in ourselves. So of course you knew the difference. I made an idiot out of myself. And you thought it was hilarious, naturally."

He wanted to lift up the blanket and entwine their fingers. But he knew that would be impossible – Holmes's hands were bandaged up and his fingers were healing. So, instead, he cupped Holmes's unscathed cheek and kissed the very tip of his nose.

"I wish you'd come back to me."

He didn't.

* * *

Watson didn't know how long he sat in the armchair, blinking back sleep and frequently sipping tea. He was hardly aware of the door opening and Steiler stepping inside, flanked by two young men Watson recognized as staff from Englischer Hof. Steiler was carrying a set of blankets and a pillow while the men were carrying two bags and a folding cot.

Watson stood from his chair and silently watched as the men set up the cot and set the two bags down on the floor next to it. Steiler deposited the bedclothes.

"I figured you'd be staying here for now," Steiler said as the other two left. "I thought I could at least make you comfortable."

Watson was, once again, humbled by this man's kindness. "Thank you," he stuttered. "Thank you very much."

Steiler offered a half smile and nodded. "The men investigating the scene found Mister Holmes's bag. He must have discarded it beforehand. The other is, of course, yours. And there's something else they found on the boulder." Out of his pocket, he pulled a folded piece of paper and handed it to Watson, followed by Holmes's silver cigarette case.

Watson held both objects in his hands. "Was this weighing the paper down?" he asked, holding up the case. Steiler nodded.

Although he was curious, Watson set down the square of paper and the case on Holmes's bedside table and turned back to Steiler.

"I assume the authorities have deduced what happened."

"Yes. It appears that he had a struggle with that English gentleman who stopped by my hotel after the two of you left. I cannot apologize enough, sir…"

Watson waved a hand dismissively. "What else is known?"

"Well, considering the matter involves two Englishmen, the police have been in contact with Scotland Yard. It appears they know the identity of this man, but I'm not certain, Doctor. I'm just an innkeeper."

Watson smiled gently and nodded. "Thank you."

Steiler looked at Holmes now. "He certainly looks better. Warmer. Peaceful."

"He does," Watson agreed, sitting down on the cot.

"I half expected you to take over and care for him yourself."

Watson laughed slightly. "I would've, had the doctors given me anything to worry about. The truth is, they've done a fair job. Besides, I don't think I can take the added stress of dealing with the language barrier."

Watson stood from the cot now and crossed over to the bed, pulling back some of the blankets to reveal a few of Holmes's injuries. They weren't visible under the white bandaging, but it didn't take much to guess what the damage was like beneath them. Watson pointed out the ribs, the hip and his entire right leg down to the twisted ankle and bruised calf.

"It will take just under two months for everything to heal properly," Watson explained, covering him back up and tucking him in. "He'll be able to walk again, no doubt. He's lucky. The broken ribs will give him some difficulty breathing, but they'll heal in six weeks. As for his shoulder, that should give him no trouble. He'll wear a sling for some time but that's all."

It hadn't occurred to Watson until just now that they wouldn't be able to go home for nearly two months. Transporting Holmes back to London with serious injuries would be too risky and too painful. The disheartening realization was gone as soon as it entered his mind once he noticed the way Steiler was watching him.

He _pitied _him. Was it really so pathetic, speaking of Holmes like this while he stayed, unresponsive, in his bed? Did everyone already consider him dead? He shook his head quickly and stared down at Holmes, distracting himself by twisting a lock of black hair around his finger.

Steiler grimaced. "Good night, sir. Try to get some rest." He made his way across the room and patted Watson's arm. "Remember to let them be the doctors. They know what's best for him."

Watson wanted to ask what exactly Steiler meant by that, but the man left the room quickly. Still, he had an inkling.


	6. Chapter 6

**The Problem**

Chapter 6/8 (not including the epilogue)

Characters: Watson, Holmes, Peter Steiler, Mycroft Holmes, Mrs. Hudson, Inspector Lestrade, Constable Clark.

Pairing: Holmes/Watson

Rating: PG-13/R for language, graphic injuries and sexual situations throughout the eight chapters and epilogue.

Summary: A re-write of "The Final Problem." Holmes and Watson acknowledge their feelings while traveling through the Continent to escape Professor Moriarty, but a tragedy at Reichenbach Falls puts everything in jeopardy. Watson must help Holmes through his recovery while the threat of Moriarty's henchmen still lingers.

Disclaimer: I don't own these lovely characters. Also, as we delve into the medical aspects of this story I'd like to add that **I am not a doctor and have no medical experience**, although I have landed myself in the ER a few times for being a reckless idiot. So, please, be kind. Everything was researched to the best of my ability and certain aspects were discussed over at studyinsherlock. Still, there's always the possibility of mistakes.

Note: Written after a prompt for a one-shot was given to me by Lia Walker. It kind of went out of control. This story will be updated daily and is not a work in progress. I hope you enjoy it!

* * *

_Chapter Six_

Over the course of the next week, there were many changes.

But Watson stayed the same. He continued to talk to Holmes casually. He would usually sleep an hour or two several times throughout the day when he knew that Holmes's doctor would be checking in on him periodically. During the night, they were usually alone and Watson didn't like to leave him unmonitored.

The hypothermia faded away and Holmes was dressed in loose-fitting pajamas that still allowed access to his injuries. His pulse was stronger than ever and was now practically leaping under Watson's fingers whenever he pressed down on his wrist.

But his eyes still remained closed.

The note also remained folded on the nightstand and under the weight of the cigarette holder. Watson had decided he didn't want to read it. He was certain that the contents would hurt and disturb him. They were the words of a man who was preparing for his death and Watson couldn't stomach that just yet. He was a little surprised that the police hadn't kept it for evidence, but he supposed it didn't matter when the criminal was so obviously dead. Still, it was a relief to see that Scotland Yard had competition when it came to the sheer stupidity of their investigators.

Three days in, and Watson still refused to lose hope. It was the same routine each morning. Wake up from the quick nap he took during the doctor's early rounds and greet Holmes with a good morning and a quick kiss. After that, he would do his own assessment of Holmes's injuries before moving on to the breakfast provided by one of the nurses who seemed to have taken a liking to Watson. The same nurse who brought him pot after pot of tea without a complaint.

During the afternoon, Steiler usually stopped by to keep Watson company during lunch and to help him communicate with Doctor Krause, who always said the same thing. Yes, Holmes's body was healing and his condition was improving. But his head injury still remained unpredictable and could very easily cause a decline in his health. If that happened, they would no longer have any control.

After that, Doctor Krause didn't visit as often. Instead, nurses came in to administer the shots and take care of the bandages. It made Watson a little nervous at first, but he knew that the doctor had many other patients to attend to and Holmes, now that he had recovered from the hypothermia, was probably not Doctor Krause's first priority.

The sixth night ended like all of the other nights before it. The nurse brought in a pot of tea and Watson spoke to Holmes between sips. Then he adjusted Holmes's blankets, pressed their lips together and collapsed into his cot. As he drifted on to sleep, he knew what would come next. He would wake up three times during the night to check on Holmes. On the seventh morning, he would rise and kiss him quickly as he always did. He would order breakfast and the rest of the day would carry on as it usually did.

He was unaware that, in reality, none of this would happen. Just like a thunder storm broke through clear skies, everything was about to change.

* * *

"Doctor Watson! Doctor Watson!"

He sat straight up in his cot, blinking away sleep as he stumbled out and straightened the waistcoat and trousers he had fallen asleep in last night. He blinked against the sunlight peeking through the blinds. Morning.

He hadn't woken up during the night to check on Holmes. He tried to turn towards his bed, but a hand grasped his upper-arm.

"Doctor, I need you at the hotel."

Watson didn't hear Steiler's words at first. He was too busy staring at Holmes. His face was still the same – pale beneath the shadows of the room with a perfectly blank expression. But something was … off. Holmes's lips had always been in a straight, fixed line. But now they seemed to be curled downward into a frown. Watson reached out to him, wanting to make it go away. But Steiler, which surprising strength, pulled him away from the bedside and towards the door.

"A little English girl was playing outside the hotel today while her parents were preparing for their departure," Steiler explained, guiding Watson out of Holmes's hospital room and into the hallways. He had Watson's Gladstone bag in tow. "She slipped and hurt her arm."

"Any doctor could help her," Watson said as they exited the hospital. "If it's simply a broken arm…"

"She's frightened of doctors, so I thought it would help if you spoke her language. I know her parents would be relieved. You see, they live just outside of London..."

Watson tuned out Steiler as he was led along the path to the hotel. He hadn't woken up to check on Holmes. Hadn't taken his pulse. Or said good morning. Or kissed him. Or chatted between bites of his breakfast. _He wasn't there._

He was ushered into one of the hotel rooms where he was introduced to the girl and her parents. The situation was immediately stressful. It was something Watson could've been able to handle had he been back at home. Not here in a foreign country when his closest friend was in such a terrible condition and currently alone.

The girl screamed and cried while her mother and father insisted that Watson be patient with her – she had always hated doctors and had an intense phobia after falling ill with pneumonia last year. In the end, it wouldn't have mattered if Watson spoke English or German. He hardly said a word. In fact, the first full sentence during his visit was to tell Steiler to make his way back to the hospital to stay with Holmes. Something just didn't feel right. A sense of dread had washed over him and he could hardly focus on the task at hand.

Knowing that Steiler was with Holmes didn't offer much relief. With the way things were going, it would be hours until the child finally gave up and allowed him to treat her. He had to leave. Of course, he didn't tell the parents this. He only suggested a sedative to move things along.

The girl only cried harder and the parents, beginning to look just as exhausted as Watson felt, finally gave in. From there, Watson was able to sling the broken arm and prescribe pain medication. He disinfected the scrapes on her hands, knees and elbows and then waited around to see that the girl woke safely and with no side effects from the sedative. As he prepared to leave, he told the parents where he could be found if they needed any more assistance. He prayed that they wouldn't, but he couldn't exactly betray their trust or refuse his services. Then, he set off in the direction of the hospital.

* * *

When he swung open the door, Doctor Krause and another doctor Watson didn't recognize were standing in Holmes room. He stepped in a little hesitantly, closing the door behind him. Doctor Krause's stern expression faltered slightly at his entrance, but the other man barely gave him a second glance.

Watson focused in on Steiler, who was standing before the unfamiliar man with a firm hold on his sleeve. They were speaking hastily in German now.

"Is something wrong?" Watson asked, setting his bag down before darting over to Holmes's bedside. Something _was _wrong. His head had fallen at an odd angle and blood was dripping from his lip. Watson dabbed it away with a handkerchief and gently opened his mouth. Holmes had bitten into his tongue.

"Holmes! What happened?" Watson demanded furiously, beginning to urgently clean his bloodied tongue. He grabbed the glass of water sitting on Holmes's nightstand and dipped the handkerchief in it, wiping more blood away from his mouth. "Well?"

"Mister Holmes suffered from two small seizures while you were gone," Steiler began quietly.

Oh, God. Why had he left? He had known something was wrong – felt the stab of fear when he left the hospital with Steiler. He always had a sense about Holmes – hunches that told him when something terrible was about to happen. This was usually because Holmes was a walking target on most occasions. But Watson hadn't been there for him. Not this time.

The new doctor snapped something at Steiler, who winced. "The doctors are considering alternative measures."

Watson knew all too well what this meant. His hand flitted down to Holmes's wrist, his own heart pounding as he searched for the pulse. It was weak, but it was there. That was all that mattered. That was enough reason to keep him alive.

"No," Watson growled, sitting on the edge of Holmes's bed and holding his left arm in his lap, guarding him. "There's still a pulse. He's going to be fine."

Now it was Doctor Krause's turn to say something to Steiler. The old man's dried lips trembled slightly. "He says Mister Holmes must be in a great deal of pain, even with the medication they've given him. Doctor, he won't be able to hold on much longer. And even if he does, sir, just imagine what he's feeling right now."

Steiler's eyes flickered over to the new doctor pointedly. Only then did Watson notice the syringe in his hand. They had planned to do this without consulting him. They would've, too, had Steiler not been there to stop them.

At first he began to feel the familiar build up of rage. But it soon passed and was replaced with a peculiar sense of tranquility. Calmly staring at the syringe, Watson finally became aware of what could happen if he let Holmes stay in this hospital any longer. This was all in his hands. No one could stop him from discharging Holmes and caring for him on his own. They had to leave.

* * *

Steiler, while he didn't approve completely of Watson demanding that Holmes be taken out of the hospital and into the hotel, still offered them a comfortable room. And what choice did he have, really? Watson knew that Steiler had become far too fond of them to refuse lodgings.

Transporting Holmes wasn't easy. But with the help of several orderlies and a few boys from the hotel staff, they brought him over to the Englischer Hof on a gurney and through the back entrance.

By the time Holmes was finally in bed with only Watson there to care for him, it was midday. Watson took lunch over to their room where he continued on with his regular routine of conversing with Holmes. After he finished eating, he walked over to his bedside where he noticed blood was still seeping through the cut on his tongue.

"I'm sorry," Watson whispered as he cleaned it from Holmes's mouth and changed the bandage around his head. By looking at his other injuries before leaving the hospital, Watson was relieved to find that the two seizures hadn't caused bones to re-break or slip out of place again. This would've lost him a week of recovery. Within a few hours, his pulse had sped up significantly. But it wasn't back to where it was before – pounding softly and steadily under Watson's fingers.

Watson climbed into bed next to him, landing down next to Holmes's left side so he could curl up against him and inhale his scent. Even after everything he had been through, Holmes still smelled like Baker Street. Steiler had asked if Watson wanted to use the cot but Watson refused, pointing out that the hotel's bed was more than big enough for the two of them. Steiler had regarded him curiously and Watson knew there was little use in hiding from him any longer. If he had not witnessed Watson's obsessing over Holmes, Steiler might not have thought twice about his insisting on sharing a bed. He probably could've gotten away with a lie, but he simply didn't have the energy. So, in a state of exhaustion and with an unclear head, Watson had asked Steiler to tolerate their relationship.

"We can't help who we love," Steiler had said with a simple shrug, baffling Watson yet again. The man was too good to be true.

"You're safe with me. I'm here. I shouldn't have left," Watson purred against Holmes's neck, the words spilling from his lips before he even had a chance to consider them. He had read studies about non-epileptic seizures after head traumas, brought on by severe mental anguish. They were products of distress. Watson wasn't quite vain enough to believe that his absence had caused such an episode, but the possibility of it kept whispering in the back of his mind.

"Don't worry anymore," Watson breathed, kissing the side of his neck now. From this angle, Holmes looked as though he were only sleeping. Watson couldn't see the bandages, casts and stitches. It was comforting.

The rest of the day was uneventful. He kept a close eye on Holmes, constantly fearing another seizure. Thankfully he didn't and, for once, Watson was glad that his friend stayed motionless on the bed.

As evening came, Watson cleaned the wounds and changed the bandages. Out of habit rather than by will, he took Holmes's pulse. It had been fluttering throughout the day, but now a steady beat was leaping under his skin once again.

"That's it, Holmes," Watson breathed happily, kissing the softness of his inner wrist.

Later on, once he became hungry, he took his chances and left to retrieve dinner and tea from the kitchen. After exchanging a few words with Steiler he nearly ran back to the room, still understandably frightened of neglecting Holmes for too long.

"I suspect you'd scold me for drugging myself with caffeine in order to stay up with you, dear," Watson called out as he used his back to push open the door, both hands occupied by the tray. He turned around to face the bed. "I can only hope you'd do the same for – "

The platter fell to the ground with a loud crash, the porcelain tea set making a shrill sound as it shattered against the wooden floors.

Holmes was exactly how Watson had left him five minutes ago. But his grey eyes were watery and large.

His eyes were _open._

With a loud cry Watson ran to his bedside and perched himself on top of the mattress, stroking Holmes's good cheek. He couldn't say much through his choked sobs and the laughter that accompanied them. But Holmes was silent and trembling very slightly under Watson's hand.

In his excitement, Watson had forgotten. He had prepared himself for this, too. For at least a few hours, maybe a day or so, Holmes probably wouldn't be able to perform basic motor functions. He wouldn't be able to talk, move his limbs or communicate very well at all. Hopefully, they would only be temporary side-effects of the coma as they usually were.

"Holmes, you must be confused," Watson said softly, climbing into the bed next to him and very carefully pulling his head against his shoulder. He stroked his hair, wary of the bandage clinging to the back of his skull. "But it's all right. Everything will be fine."

Holmes only blinked. A few tears dripped down his cheeks and Watson quickly banished them with a few flicks of his thumb.

"You're safe," he whispered against his ear. "It's me. It's Watson."

A sudden, husky sound emerged from Holmes's mouth and Watson winced for him. More tears flew from his eyes and he let out a strangled whimper.

Watson read him immediately and flew from the bed, grabbing his Gladstone bag and filling a syringe with morphine. "I know, I know …" he muttered, panicking. "Everything must hurt right now. It's all right, Holmes, one moment…"

He pressed the tip of the needle into Holmes's skin and watched as the detective's face slowly relaxed.

"There you are," Watson smiled, climbing back in next to him. "Steady on, old fellow."

The night progressed and was just as quiet as it had been before Holmes's awakening. Despite it all, Holmes seemed to be soothed by Watson's gentle voice and the feeling of his hand running through his hair and over his shoulders. Steiler brought in another tray. He didn't say much, but there was a clear look of relief painted across his face as he set the platter on the nightstand and slipped from the room. To Watson's surprise, Holmes was able to sip the tea when he pressed the rim to his lips. He was still unable to chew – as Watson discovered when the poor man nearly choked to death – but he was, at least, able to take in spoonfuls of soup.

Later on, Watson helped Holmes stretch by taking his good arm and extending it slowly over and over again. He did the same with his leg. It seemed to help, and Watson grinned outright when he saw the toes on Holmes's left foot curl in slightly.

"See," Watson said as he covered Holmes back up. He had been staring down at his injuries for some time now, and Watson couldn't bear to see the pained expression any longer. "You're going to be just fine."

Holmes only sniffed in response, his eyes still cast downward and his mouth twisted in the frown he had woken up with. Sighing, Watson lifted his chin up and pressed their lips together. When he pulled back, Holmes still wasn't smiling. Watson had to remind himself that he simply wasn't able to just yet. But his eyes seemed a little brighter.

"Sleep, if you like," Watson yawned, crawling in next to him and resting his head on the pillow. He pressed his nose against Holmes's temple, tickling his ear with his moustache. "Just promise me you'll wake up."

It must've taken all of Holmes's strength, but he was able to let his head fall to the side and allow their noses to brush together. Watson just smiled, keeping his eyes on Holmes's until the other man drifted away.

* * *

Just as before, he woke up three times throughout the night to check on Holmes. Each time, he found him snoring softly. His nose and lips twitched every now and then – a characteristic Watson had noticed years before – which indicated that the detective was only sleeping and not drifting in a place where Watson couldn't reach him. Not only that, but he was beginning to move more muscles in his face.

By morning, Watson hoped, there would be even more improvement.


	7. Chapter 7

**The Problem**

Chapter 7/8 (not including the epilogue)

Characters: Watson, Holmes, Peter Steiler, Mycroft Holmes, Mrs. Hudson, Inspector Lestrade, Constable Clark.

Pairing: Holmes/Watson

Rating: PG-13/R for language, graphic injuries and sexual situations throughout the eight chapters and epilogue.

Summary: A re-write of "The Final Problem." Holmes and Watson acknowledge their feelings while traveling through the Continent to escape Professor Moriarty, but a tragedy at Reichenbach Falls puts everything in jeopardy. Watson must help Holmes through his recovery while the threat of Moriarty's henchmen still lingers.

Disclaimer: I don't own these lovely characters. Also, as we delve into the medical aspects of this story I'd like to add that **I am not a doctor and have no medical experience**, although I have landed myself in the ER a few times for being a reckless idiot. So, please, be kind. Everything was researched to the best of my ability and certain aspects were discussed over at studyinsherlock. Still, there's always the possibility of mistakes.

Note: Written after a prompt for a one-shot was given to me by Lia Walker. It kind of went out of control. This story will be updated daily and is not a work in progress. I hope you enjoy it!

* * *

_Chapter Seven_

It happened in the late afternoon when Watson was napping and Holmes was drifting off next to him. He hadn't been able to speak all day, but Watson supposed a fair amount of pain was enough to bring Holmes back.

"Watson? Watson! Please, wake up."

Holmes's voice was strained and raspy. If he hadn't been the only other person in the room, Watson wouldn't have even recognized it as his. It took Watson a few seconds to register the fact that Holmes was actually _talking_ before he realized why his eyes were large and pleading and his face was twisted with pain. The broken ribs made breathing practically intolerable.

Watson crossed the room to his bag and, within a minute or so, was injecting the morphine into Holmes's vein. He waited, holding onto him, as the drug took effect.

"Thank you," Holmes whispered, squeezing his eyes shut as he rode out the last few spasms of pain.

"You're speaking," Watson whispered after Holmes had relaxed against him.

"Well spotted, old boy."

Watson grinned and kissed his eyelid. Holmes sighed and caught Watson's lips, gently moving them against his own. After a moment, Watson ended the kiss with one last, quick peck and watched Holmes carefully. He reached behind his head and began gently stroking the bandage there.

"When you're ready to talk about what happened, say the words."

Holmes laughed bitterly and shook his hand off, cringing. "What happened? My dear Watson, I've deduced that much, I assure you. My current grotesque state tells me quite enough."

Watson winced and shook his head. "You're not grotesque, Holmes. You do realize you're going to be just fine in six weeks time, don't you? Yes, we'll need to work on walking, I'm sure. But…" he trailed. Holmes was too busy staring down the length of his body at his bound ankle. Watson quickly pulled the blankets over it and tried to direct Holmes's attention back to him. "You'll be just as you were. I promise."

Holmes smiled tightly. "If you say so, Doctor."

Watson smiled back, beginning to draw circles against Holmes's hip. "In fact, I do say so. Now, what do you remember?"

Holmes stared at the opposite wall for a moment, chewing nervously at his bottom lip before he began to speak. "After you left, I remember being led back to the falls where he … Moriarty … found me. He let me write that note to you, Watson, before he tried to overpower me. I remember thinking I might come out of it alive, but nothing else after that."

Holmes was baring his teeth, a look of revulsion on his otherwise handsome face. His eyes flickered to Watson's and he let out a strangled laugh. "Although, as I've said before, all these broken bones and cuts and gashes tell the story quite well."

"Don't think about it," Watson whispered, gliding his hand up and down Holmes's arm as he spoke. "Do you remember anything from the hospital? You were out for a week."

"Should I?"

"Not necessarily. That's uncommon."

Holmes's shrugged his shoulder. "I don't remember anything. But I remember your voice. I don't believe I actually _heard_ it, but somehow I always knew when you were close by."

Holmes turned his head away as if he were embarrassed. But Watson smiled and kissed the sensitive skin behind his ear, causing Holmes to make a small sound in the back of his throat that verged on pleasure.

"Could you please refrain? I'm in no condition for … for this."

"Sorry," Watson murmured, gently urging Holmes to turn his face around so he could press their foreheads together. "You're recovering wonderfully, you know. Just last night you couldn't speak. The night before you weren't even conscious."

"I know. It still doesn't change what happened. Watson, what if I can't walk again – "

"Holmes, you _will,"_ Watson sighed. "If anything, you'll have to walk with a cane for a year or so."

"A _year?"_

"Well, it's better than having to use one for the rest of your life, isn't it?" he snapped, stung.

Holmes's face softened. "Oh, Watson … I'm sorry."

"It's fine," Watson replied shortly, rubbing his own thigh and avoiding Holmes's sympathetic eyes.

Holmes sighed and kissed the side of his neck, breathing against it. "We'll get matching canes," he joked lightly, eyes raised to watch Watson.

Even if he had tried, Watson wouldn't have been able to stop his smile.

* * *

Three weeks passed slowly, marking the halfway point. In another three weeks, all of the bandages and casts would come off and Holmes could try walking again.

By this time, Holmes had seen his reflection in a handheld mirror provided by Watson. The stitches on his cheek had been removed only a few days after he regained consciousness, leaving a bright red scar along his cheekbone.

"It will fade to white," Watson had told him as he watched Holmes's face fall and his lips quiver. He kissed the scar as he took away the mirror. "Soon you won't even think twice about it."

Holmes's reaction to his twisted and deformed earlobe wasn't nearly as bad, but Watson still frantically assured him that he could probably do some sort of reconstructive surgery to help with the appearance. Holmes didn't seem to care too much about his hands, either, even when Watson explained that the nails that grew in the place of the missing ones might not be the same.

But the scar on his face still seemed to haunt him more than anything else.

"Since when do you care about such superficial things?" Watson had asked, stroking the raised line with his thumb.

"Since you," Holmes explained, as if it were obvious.

"Idiot," Watson growled, immediately smothering the area with kisses. "You could be scarred from head to toe and my feelings for you still wouldn't change."

That seemed to ease Holmes's self-consciousness for the time being.

The fourth and fifth week came and went. It was a rather peaceful time, and Holmes seemed genuinely happy to just be with Watson. But these blissful seven days didn't prepare them for the coming storm.

* * *

"We're going to have to talk about where we want this … this relationship to go," Watson whispered, his breath hitching slightly as Holmes's stubble grazed his cheek.

He had been crouched over Holmes's body for nearly ten minutes now, hands and knees on either side of his shoulders and hips. His leg was starting to stiffen under his weight, but he was lost in the pleasure of the tingling sensation that went up his spine each time they brushed lips or Holmes nipped the skin on his neck.

"Just one more week and you can try walking."

He tried pressing his tongue between Holmes's lips, but he jerked back slightly and made a small, protesting sound. Watson quickly pulled away.

"What is it?"

Holmes's face was flushed, but he forced a smile. "I'm afraid if you continue this any longer a problem might, um, _rise."_

"Oh," Watson gasped, swinging his leg back to his side of the bed. "Holmes, I'm sorry."

"That's all right."

Watson sat down next to him, refraining from touching him in any way. He couldn't imagine how uncomfortable Holmes would be if he became aroused while there was no possible way to relieve himself without jolting one of his injuries. He watched as the redness faded from his face and the creamy, pale color returned.

"Has this been happening often?" Watson asked. "If all my … attention … has been causing a problem, I can stop."

"No, that's not necessary. But if you must kiss me, please keep it chaste."

They stayed quiet for a minute or two before Holmes nudged Watson with his good knee. "You should know that I am, of course, willing to do … to do more once I'm healed."

Watson held up a hand, urging him to stop. "Holmes, really, we don't have to talk about – "

"Meaning I wouldn't be against…" he took a breath. "…sodomy," he continued on the exhale.

"Holmes, don't call it that."

"What else am I supposed to call it?"

"I don't know, just not that! That makes it sound…bad."

"It _is_ illegal."

"Holmes!" Watson cried, placing a finger against his lips. "We don't need to worry about any of this right now."

Holmes knotted his eyebrows. "Do you … not want to?"

Watson squeezed his eyes shut. "Of _course _I want to. I was actually afraid you wouldn't. It seems to be quite the opposite, actually." He opened his eyes again and gave Holmes a half-smile. "I just don't want you to concern yourself with it. At all. Concentrate on getting your strength back. Once we get back to London in a few weeks…" he trailed off, stroking his hair.

Holmes suddenly fell very silent and leaned away from his touch to stare at the door. Watson frowned and brushed his fingertips against Holmes's arm. "What's wrong?"

"Watson, you idiot," he breathed, closing his eyes and sighing. "I can't go back to London."

The following silence was intolerable. Holmes was now staring at Watson, whose jaw had literally dropped in surprise. It would have been comical in any other situation.

"I thought you knew," Holmes whispered after a moment.

"What on Earth are you talking about?" Watson croaked. His attempt at sounding angry had fallen flat. "I don't simply follow your train of thought as you do mine, I …" he trailed off, waving a hand shakily.

Holmes shifted uncomfortably in the bed and shook his head, looking away again. "I thought you were aware of the fact that just because Moriarty is finished with doesn't mean his henchmen are. The big fish is done for, but the smaller dart right and left out of the net. If I'm to return to London alive and well, do you really believe I'm to go unpunished for what I've done to their friend and leader? Watson, I made this decision when I thought I would be safe from falling off the ledge and it has been my plan all along. The world must think I'm dead."

Something clicked in Watson's mind as all the pieces finally fell into place and he comprehended what Holmes was saying. "Once you regain your strength you're going to leave. Just like that. And expect me to do what? Tell everyone you died from complications after your fall? Bury an empty casket? Write a bloody narrative about it and move on with my life?"

He all but flung himself from the bed and paced the room. Holmes followed him with his eyes.

"Calm down, old man," Holmes whispered as Watson finally listened to his leg and collapsed in an armchair.

"If you hadn't fallen you were going to run off and let me believe you to be dead, weren't you?"

"In all probability, yes. You never were much of an actor. I couldn't have let you know the truth." Holmes sighed.

"How could you?" Watson cried, aghast. He had expected to be angry – and he certainly was. But the feeling of betrayal outweighed everything else.

"It's a matter of self-preservation. I – "

"You selfish bastard." The words were out before Watson could hold his tongue.

"Selfish?" Holmes whispered. "Watson, let me finish."

"Go right ahead."

"I would have done it to save myself, yes. But also to protect you. I couldn't have come home. The attacks wouldn't stop until I was dead. Why drag you into that, risking your own life while also forcing you to witness my numbered days and deal with my death? If I hadn't returned to England but kept in contact with you, you'd be waiting every day for a body."

"And letting me believe you were dead would've been better?"

"Would it have been better to wait for it, knowing that it was coming? That my time was up?"

"I don't know," Watson admitted softly. "I could've protected you. The police – "

"It wouldn't have ended."

"How long would you have let me believe you were dead?"

"Until Moriarty's men let down their guard and were either imprisoned or killed. Two years, maybe longer. See, Watson. That's not too terrible, is it?"

Watson sighed and stood from the chair, coming to settle back down onto the bed. "And what now? Now that everyone knows you're alive and recovering?"

Holmes smiled and leaned against the doctor. Despite everything, Watson couldn't help but snake an arm around his shoulders and hold him there against his chest.

"I've had plenty of time to think about it, Watson. And I think you'll agree that I'm making the right choice."

* * *

And so Watson had to go along with Holmes's elaborate plan. Once the man made up his mind, he wouldn't have it any other way.

While Holmes took off for Florence, Watson would return to London on his own and stay for three months. During those three months, he would give London the performance of a lifetime and pretend as though Holmes were dead. Holmes advised that he spend most of his time out of the public eye, pretending to mourn. Watson and Mycroft – who would be aware of the situation – would bury an empty casket, transported from Switzerland, during a very private ceremony closed to the public and the press. Watson would publish an account of all that had happened during their travels but fabricate the end, stating that Holmes had passed from complications soon after waking from a coma. During those three months, Watson would eventually announce his plans to give up his practice and retire early to travel abroad with his Norwegian friend Sigerson – Holmes's alias. The public would accept this for the most part, Holmes decided, and wouldn't question a man who had gone through such an ordeal and lost his closest companion.

After this, Watson would reunite with him in Florence. From there, they would continue traveling about with the help of Mycroft's money until it was safe to reveal the truth and return home to Baker Street.

Watson was overwhelmed by it all, shedding tears as Holmes delicately explained his plan. Finally, Holmes could take no more of it and kissed the drops away.

"Watson, I hate to ask you to do all these things. To give up your practice and leave home. But I just see no other way."

Watson quickly shook his head, dismissing Holmes's words as he tangled a hand in his messy dark hair and pressed a firm kiss to his lips. "No, it's not that," Watson said as he collected himself. "It's just three months of being away from you. I'm not sure if I can stand that."

"Three months is better than three years, Watson. It's what we have to do to insure that we can stay together. To keep what we have from ending prematurely."

"I know," Watson admitted, resting his chin on the top of Holmes's head. "I know. I just…"

Holmes buried his face in Watson's neck. When he felt the wetness on Holmes's own face, dripping down his neck, he knew the separation wouldn't be easy for him either.


	8. Chapter 8

**The Problem**

Chapter 8/8 (not including the epilogue)

Characters: Watson, Holmes, Peter Steiler, Mycroft Holmes, Mrs. Hudson, Inspector Lestrade, Constable Clark.

Pairing: Holmes/Watson

Rating: PG-13/R for language, graphic injuries and sexual situations throughout the eight chapters and epilogue.

Summary: A re-write of "The Final Problem." Holmes and Watson acknowledge their feelings while traveling through the Continent to escape Professor Moriarty, but a tragedy at Reichenbach Falls puts everything in jeopardy. Watson must help Holmes through his recovery while the threat of Moriarty's henchmen still lingers.

Disclaimer: I don't own these lovely characters. Also, as we delve into the medical aspects of this story I'd like to add that **I am not a doctor and have no medical experience**, although I have landed myself in the ER a few times for being a reckless idiot. So, please, be kind. Everything was researched to the best of my ability and certain aspects were discussed over at studyinsherlock. Still, there's always the possibility of mistakes.

Note: Written after a prompt for a one-shot was given to me by Lia Walker. It kind of went out of control. This story will be updated daily and is not a work in progress. I hope you enjoy it!

* * *

_Chapter Eight_

Watson and Holmes knew they wouldn't be able to fool Peter Steiler. He was the only other man who had witnessed Holmes's recovery firsthand. He brought them their meals, kept Holmes company when Watson left for a walk (something that Holmes insisted on to stop him from hovering over his bedside all day) and stood close by as the doctor helped Holmes take his first steps after the bandages and casts were removed.

It wasn't easy. He only stayed steady on his own for a few seconds before gasping and leaning on Watson for support. But, with the help of a cane, he was walking by the middle of the seventh week.

Watson was torn. He was, of course, overjoyed to see his friend walking upright and making his way about the small room on his own. He hardly ever stumbled anymore. On the other hand, his heart ached. Each step Holmes took subtracted one of their already limited days together.

The time came too fast, just as Watson had suspected. It was a Monday in mid-June when Holmes finally announced that they would be departing from Meiringen that Wednesay.

They spent the rest of the day in almost complete silence. Each time they caught the other stealing a glance they would look away awkwardly, clear their throats. Holmes would usually pick up the local paper but Watson, unable to find any reading material in English, would settle for staring at his hands and picking at his nails.

Holmes didn't bother looking up when Watson left for his walk. But when he laced up his shoes for a second time that day and made to leave, Holmes took notice.

"Where are you going?" he asked as he tossed his paper to the side, standing up from the bed, his posture still stiff. Watson didn't know why Holmes even bothered asking. He had to know.

"A walk," he answered gruffly, snatching up his cane.

"Another one?"

Watson finally made eye contact with him and shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "I don't know. What do you want me to do, Holmes?"

Holmes sat back down on the bed, gesturing for Watson to come join him. Watson peeled off his shoes and sat down, the mattress groaning under their weight. Holmes reached out to touch Watson's face, but he caught Holmes's hand in his own and examined the scarred fingers along with the chipped nails and exposed nail beds. He kissed his palm and then went up to touch the scar on his face, but Holmes pushed his hand away.

"Stop it," he demanded, banishing any protests Watson might have made by pulling him in for a surprisingly deep, passionate kiss.

Watson gave in as Holmes panted against his lips and tugged at his waistcoat, begging him for something that he wasn't naming. He managed to push Watson down onto his back, but let out a pained cry as he jolted his hip while attempting to straddle the doctor.

"Holmes, stop," Watson snapped, sitting up and pushing him down against the pillows. Tears that Watson mistook for a reaction to the pain were streaming down Holmes's face. But it wasn't until he spoke up that Watson understood the true meaning.

"If I can just give you something – anything before I have to leave … Watson, I don't want to disappoint you anymore than I already have. I can't bear leaving you while you're angry with me. I won't…"

His voice was trembling violently now and eventually dwindled away into nothing as Watson leaned in and kissed him.

"I'm not disappointed with you, Holmes, and I'm certainly not angry. Three months. Ninety days. That's all. Nothing's going to change."

"Everything will change!" Holmes cried, pushing him away half-heartedly.

Watson grasped his hand and held it firmly. "Nothing between _us _will. I promise you. And you don't need to do anything _for _me or _to _me to keep it that way. Holmes, I love you."

A particularly loud sob seized Holmes's body as he forced himself into Watson's arms, pressing himself against his chest. Watson held him close as his cries turned into soft sniffles and eventually gentle snores. He didn't return the words, but Watson knew they would come in time.

* * *

Tuesday night, they brought Steiler into their room and explained everything. The innkeeper had been aware of a few things, as Holmes had told him long ago to keep his recovery a secret and tell anyone who asked that he was still struggling to stay alive. Steiler, of course, had obeyed. Now, he listened quietly as Holmes explained their plan.

Wednesday afternoon, Holmes would leave the hotel in disguise and make his way to Florence. Watson would leave soon after and return to London and Steiler would send Holmes's empty casket after him. Other than that, Steiler's only other task was to keep their secret until he received notice from Holmes. All he had to do was tell anyone who asked that Holmes had died soon after waking from a coma and the doctor with him had returned home to London. Soon, the curiosity would wane and Steiler wouldn't have to give them another thought.

"If money will keep you silent, I can arrange that," Holmes said as he stood next to the small table and poured the three of them tea. He handed a cup to Watson and a cup to Steiler, watching his expression carefully as he took a seat on the edge of his bed.

"Oh no, sir!" Steiler exlclaimed, looking almost offended by Holmes's offer. "I would never ask for such a thing."

Holmes gave him a knowing smile. "Of course not. I didn't expect it from you, but I thought it only fair to ask. Watson has told me how wonderful and helpful you've been. Not to mention your tolerance regarding the nature of our relationship."

Steiler only nodded, a ghost of a smile gracing his lips as he watched Holmes grasp Watson's hand for emphasis. "It's my pleasure, Mister Holmes. Any secret that you have is safe with me."

They both thanked Steiler profusely before closing and locking their door and climbing into bed. It would be their last night together, but neither mentioned it as they curled up under the quilts and shared the warmth of their bodies.

"Watson," Holmes whispered as the doctor began to drift off to sleep, stroking Holmes's unruly head of hair.

"Hmm?" he murmured.

Holmes grinned and dragged his lips up Watson's neck, stopping at his ear. "I do believe that Steiler is one man who we must absolutely _never_, under _any_ circumstances, anger."


	9. Epilogue

**The Problem**

Epilogue

Characters: Watson, Holmes, Peter Steiler, Mycroft Holmes, Mrs. Hudson, Inspector Lestrade, Constable Clark.

Pairing: Holmes/Watson

Rating: PG-13/R for language, graphic injuries and sexual situations throughout the eight chapters and epilogue.

Summary: A re-write of "The Final Problem." Holmes and Watson acknowledge their feelings while traveling through the Continent to escape Professor Moriarty, but a tragedy at Reichenbach Falls puts everything in jeopardy. Watson must help Holmes through his recovery while the threat of Moriarty's henchmen still lingers.

Note: Written after a prompt for a one-shot was given to me by Lia Walker. It kind of went out of control. This story will be updated daily and is not a work in progress. I hope you enjoy it!

* * *

_Epilogue _

He had once loved London. The bustling of the streets, the loud crowds, the interesting conversations he caught as he made his way across town. It had been his home for so long. His happy oasis. The city that saved him after the Battle of Maiwand.

But it hadn't really been London that he loved or London that saved him. Not really. It was Sherlock Holmes.

Holmes had taken him in after he returned from the war, broken and wounded and suffering from the memories. Holmes, of course, hadn't coddled him through the worst of it. And Watson, hardly knowing the man, didn't expect that from him. But now, looking back, Holmes had helped him through the trauma in his own way.

He brought him breakfast when Watson couldn't find the will to rise in the mornings. He had provided him with warm towels to soothe his wounded thigh. When Watson couldn't sleep at night and wandered aimlessly to the sitting room, attempting to distract himself with a book, Holmes would be there. Often unable to sleep himself, the detective would pick up his violin and run the white bow hairs across the strings, pulling out a melodic tune from the wooden belly and lighting up the room with a few slow, comforting lines. Watson would wake with the book spread over his chest, a pillow that wasn't there before behind his neck and a blanket draped over his thin frame.

The memories were flooding back as Watson stood in the sitting room, staring down at the instrument. He reached out and plucked the E string with his thumb.

"Holmes has asked you to keep our rooms in the same condition?" Watson asked as he closed the violin case and turned to Mycroft Holmes, whose large figure was standing in the window and literally blotting out the sun.

"Yes," he answered, moving from the window and strolling across the sitting room, the floorboards creaking under his weight. "This won't last forever, Doctor. You'll both be home before you know it."

Watson forced a smile and followed Mycroft down the familiar seventeen steps where Mrs. Hudson was waiting for them anxiously.

"Oh, Doctor," she cried, grasping his hands as he reached the landing. Mycroft watched on, looking mildly amused and very much like his younger brother at the moment. "I hear you're leaving town. When?"

"Next week," Watson answered, keeping his expression even as he took Mrs. Hudson's hand and patted it.

"Oh dear," she sighed, looking up at him mournfully. "Will I ever see you again?"

"I should hope so, Mrs. Hudson."

She smiled thinly, a tear trickling from one of her eyes. "Losing Mr. Holmes was such a terrible, terrible shock. The man and I could never get along, you know, but that doesn't mean I didn't care for him."

"I know you did," Watson assured her. "And I'm sure he felt the same way about you, even though he had a very hard time showing it."

"I do hope so," she sighed.

After saying goodbye to Mrs. Hudson, he and Mycroft set out onto the streets in search of a place to have dinner. He had taken comfort in Mycroft's company and in having someone else know that Holmes was alive. Otherwise, he was sure he would've lost his mind by now. It seemed that everywhere he went people watched him with sad eyes or shook his hand, offering their condolences. Even Mary had written, telling him how sorry she was. She had, Watson mused as he read the letter, probably always knew that her husband would love Holmes more than he ever would love her.

Inspector Lestrade was beside himself. Soon after Watson returned from Switzerland, Lestrade and Constable Clark had tried to talk him into allowing a separate memorial service on Scotland Yard's bill, but Watson wouldn't allow it. This caused some hurt feelings on Lestrade's part, claiming he was just as much Holmes's friend as Watson was. Even Clarky, who had been troubled by the news of Holmes's death, had laughed at this. Instead of a service, the Yard spent their money on decorating their uniforms with black mourning bands. This had Watson wondering if they were mourning Holmes or the increased crime rate that was sure to follow with his absence.

After Lestrade licked his wounds, he stopped by to ask Watson if he would like to become a police surgeon for the force. Although touched, Watson had to decline. He insisted that it was nothing personal – he was sure that he would've taken the position if he hadn't been planning to leave in two months – but Lestrade had, of course, taken Watson's response the wrong way. He hadn't heard from him since.

Watson's literary agent seemed to be the only man in London who didn't really seem to care much for Holmes's death. In fact, Watson was positive he had never been fond of the detective to begin with and only continued working with Watson because of the public's interest. Still, he seemed a little melancholy once he finished Watson's account of Holmes's death, fittingly titled "The Final Problem."

"Well," he had said quietly, turning the final page of the manuscript. "I suppose that's the last we'll ever read of Sherlock Holmes."

Watson, at Holmes's bidding, had included an edited version of Holmes's note in the narrative. Watson hadn't even glanced at the folded piece of paper until he arrived in London, and reading it then had brought on emotions that he hadn't been prepared for. It was a romantic, almost poetic rambling of words that Watson knew could never see the light of day. So he penned a new version for show and included it in his story.

In late October, the day finally came to make his journey to Florence. As he waited on the train in Victoria station, he felt surprisingly calm – like he had on the day he had to say goodbye to Holmes. It had been a quiet and composed affair. A few quick kisses and a _"see you soon"_ and _"be careful." _He wondered if, once they reunited, he would be able to keep himself in check. There was no denying that he missed him terribly and worried constantly. While Watson had the familiarity of London and the support of Mycroft, Holmes had nothing.

He slept for most of his trip, trying to fight off the nervousness that was beginning to consume him. So when he was led by a waiter to a table in a Florence hotel, he was positively shaking.

"_Signore_ Sigerson," the waiter said with a nod, addressing a man with a heavy beard. Watson only recognized Holmes from his softened, steel-grey eyes.

He all but collapsed in the chair across from Holmes as the waiter left their table. They stared at each other for a few minutes until Holmes pushed a glass of wine towards him. Watson took one sip and set it down before reaching out to catch Holmes's hand before he put it back under the table.

"Can we go to your room?" he whispered, pleading.

Holmes only nodded and took his hand back before casually rising from the table and leading Watson to the stairs with the help of a cane.

Once in the protection of their room Holmes turned away and removed his disguise. Setting it down on the vanity and tossing his walking stick into the corner, he hesitated before finally turning to face Watson.

He was so _thin. _That was the first thing Watson noticed. His cheek bones were far more prominent and his scar, once hidden by the disguise, was not nearly as obvious as before. Despite the slightly alarming state of his sinewy body, Holmes seemed well for a man who had fallen fifteen feet or more onto a freezing ledge.

"Holmes…" was all Watson could make out through a trembling smile as he reached and pulled the man into his arms. Through slow, languid kisses they eventually made their way to the bed where clothes were carefully removed and old and new scars alike were treated with tender kisses and light touches.

It was all very clumsy and new, and perhaps even a little painful for Holmes, but they made their way through it slowly and gently.

In the final moments when Holmes began to pant and Watson started to moan in response, Holmes reached and grabbed Watson's arm, pulling himself up to kiss his shoulder.

"John – " he gasped, his head falling back onto the pillow as he stared up at the ceiling, his eyes unfocused.

Startled by the use of his first name, Watson kissed it away from his lips and buried his face into Holmes's shoulder, speeding up the movement.

"I love you," Holmes whispered, fingers digging into Watson's back. "I'm sorry I never said it before. I – I…"

He never finished his sentence. With a low whine, he reached the end and lost all control over his body. Watson followed soon after. It wasn't how Watson had first pictured it – tucked away safely in Baker Street – but that didn't matter now. They couldn't have picked a better time.

* * *

Watson awoke half-draped over Holmes's body with one knee nestled between Holmes's thighs and the other pressing against his hip. Holmes was already alert, rubbing one hand up and down Watson's bare bake.

"How do you feel?" Watson asked, kissing his jaw.

"Sore," Holmes mused, moving his hand to rub at the joint of his right hip. "Everywhere."

Watson sat up and pushed his hand away, pressing a kiss to the protruding hip bone. "Worth it, though?"

"Every second of it," Holmes answered, sitting up to lean against the headboard. Watson joined him and grasped his hand, running a thumb over the knuckles.

They stayed in bed awhile longer, catching up and discussing their three months apart. Holmes told Watson about all the wonderful cuisine Italy had to offer while Watson amused him with stories about London's reaction to his supposed death. He found Watson's account of Scotland Yard's armbands particularly hilarious.

Eventually they dressed and Holmes became Sigerson once again. They had breakfast at the hotel and then took a walk around the city, visiting some of Holmes's favorite locations that Watson had only read about in travel guides he perused before leaving London. During a walk through the Boboli Gardens, Watson wasted no time in proudly telling Holmes all he knew about the Neptune fountain and the Pitti Palace, visible from the area.

Watson figured that Holmes most likely knew the history already, but he still smiled and listened to everything Watson had to say. It wasn't until they stopped to sit on a stone bench that Holmes removed his disguise and tucked it away in his jacket.

"Holmes…" Watson muttered nervously, frowning as he scanned the area.

"It's all right, Watson," Holmes assured. "No one's around just yet."

Still a little wary, he nudged Holmes with his foot. "Why'd we stop?"

The corner of Holmes's mouth turned up into a smile. "You do realize we'll be leaving for Tibet by the end of the week, don't you? It's just that you seem so taken with the city, I'm afraid of disappointing you."

Watson shrugged a shoulder. "I did have to pretend I was going on some remarkable explorations with my good friend Mr. Sigerson. Nearly everyone was asking where I was going and the locations I was planning to visit. I'm an encyclopedia now. Ask me anything."

Holmes laughed rather loudly, having to cover his mouth with a hand to quiet himself. Watson grinned, pleased, and stood from the bench as Holmes worked on putting his disguise back in place.

"Come on, old boy," Watson smiled, reaching out to help Holmes off the bench and linking arms. "Let's enjoy the city while we can."

With that they made their way down the path, ready for the coming adventures.

_The End._


End file.
